Love, M
by twhorus
Summary: Rick and Michonne have been attached at the hip for a better part of their lives, facing every good and bad moment together. One slip up later, their paths diverge, and though life has quite afew things to throw at them, their bond remains strong as they see through the complexities it has to offer. Every complexity, but their own complicated relationship. AUInspired by Love, Rosie
1. Celebration Blues

Deep breaths. Blink, breath. Start from the beginning.

Tell them about the first day you met Rick. Tell them how he hobbled into the classroom, bow-legged and carrying a book bag two sizes too big. Tell them how you sat next to each other, and from that day forward, you always would. Tell them about the late night conversations, the whispering in the dark. Tell them about the adventures, the laughs, the triumphs and the struggles.

Tell them about the looks.

No. Keep that for the two of you.

Tell them why this is – why this has to be – one of the best days of your life.

Michonne felt the tap on her shoulder that sent her spiraling back in the present. Blinking away fresh tears, she reoriented to the glimmering lights, silken chairs, and chatter that fluttered around. Andrea hovered above her, meeting her anguish with grim apology. "Time for the toast."

Michonne nodded, gulping air down as she stood, praying she didn't look as grim as she felt. With trembling hands she lifted up her wine glass and clanked her fork against it. "If we could please gather for a moment, everyone, please."

Chatter died down almost at once, everyone eager to hear from Michonne, the best man - or in this case, the best woman. She gave them every reason to think she was quiet, dodging away curious gazes and deflecting conversation citing nerves as physical ailment. Now, she cleared her throat as all eyes drifted to her.

A pair of blue ones in particular lodged her words into the back of her throat.

From across the room, Rick smiled at her from behind his hand, where a simple gold band shimmered. She knew he had a scar on that finger just where the ring covered it, from third grade when he burned his skin on the wax. She knew his effortlessly tousled hair was the result of hours of hassling. She knew exactly what to say to calm him down, to make him laugh, to make him see sense.

But as she stood there, tears threatening to ruin everything, she wasn't sure what to say. To him. To herself. To these people. All these people.

So she began.

* * *

2001

16 YEARS EARLIER

MICHONNE'S 18TH BIRTHDAY

(MOST OF WHICH SHE WAS TOO DRUNK TO REMEMBER)

A familiar R&B song floated over the speakers, one Rick only knew from his car rides with Michonne, days of lazy driving turned useful in this particular setting. And by setting he meant, of course, being one of only a few white people in the club.

"I can't believe they let us in!"

"I can," Michonne yelled, louder still. "It cost me two whole checks to get those damn I.D's, and we're gonna put em' to good use."

With that promise she downed another shot, her fifth that night by Rick's count. He reclined against the bar, mostly because he'd had a couple of drinks too and was starting to sway. "Feelin' reckless tonight, aren't we?"

She rolled her eyes, which looked more than a little funny, her face souring as the drink did its thing. "It's my 18th. In the UK, this is perfectly legal."

That had been her rhetoric the entire time they planned this little event. "Ok, Attorney-at-Law Grey, we live in the U.S."

"Shut up and come dance with me." She tugged his arm and together they stumbled into the beat. Rick was no dancer by far, and Michonne, even in her drunken haze, knew that perfectly well. They swayed their own little spot, giggling stupidly as they tripped over their own feet. The many brilliant lights in the place did their own dance against Michonne's skin, and it was all Rick could do to watch her for a second. Her dress, yellow and flowing, twirling as she did. Her locs free and spilling down her shoulders. He had to leash the thought of brushing them behind her ear. It would be lost in the drunken haze of it all, and then it wouldn't mean anything.

Would it? Why did he want it to mean something, anyways?

Michonne grabbed the lapels of his coat, pulling him closer as she sang loudly to the lyrics. With little space between them he could feel the heat emanating off of her, alcohol mingled with her favorite perfume, the one her father gifted her with for her 14th birthday. It smelled more powerful than ever, Rick thought, as they kissed.

Kissed. The sensation didn't fully register till' a moment later. They were kissing, Michonne's lips pressed firmly against his. The feeling both jarred and thrilled him, and he meant to pull away when -

Michonne slipped. She didn't just slip, though, she slipped and hit her head on the side of the counter. Rick felt his heart sputter as he reached out to catch her, too late. She hit the floor just as the chorus hit.

* * *

The next day Rick was rubbing the back of his head as he braced himself in front of the colorful door of the Grey family home. Michonne called him earlier, voice groggy and cracked on the other line, to come to her house. There was no mention of a kiss, but he thought maybe she didn't want to talk about it over the phone. No, this was serious enough to warrant a face to face conversation. He felt nervous enough to put on his best shirt and jeans, and even a jacket. His insides twisted as he knocked once, twice, a third and fourth time in quick succession. His signature knock.

Mrs. Grey answered the door. Michonne's mother was always glowing and beautiful, and today was no different, as she was glowing and beautiful glaring at her daughters best friend. By the accusatory glint in her eye, Rick could only wonder what Michonne had said or done since they'd been dropped off that night. "Good morning, Rick."

"Mornin' ma'am," he greeted, laying the politeness on thick now that he had something to be embarrassed about. "Is Chonne – "

"Up there." Mrs. Brown nodded towards the stairs that led to the bedrooms. "Michonne, Rick is here!"

There was the sound of her door creaking open, and Michonne appeared at the top of the steps, wrapped snugly in a purple blanket. She squinted down at them and the harsh sunlight they let through the front door. "It is too damn early for you all to be yelling."

Rick squinted back at her, amused by her post-drunken attire. "It's 2:00 in the afternoon."

"Too. damn. Early." With that, she disappeared back down the hall in a flurry of sheets. Mrs. Grey rolled her eyes, looking just like her daughter as she did it. "I take it you two had quite a bit of fun last night?"

Rick blushed deep. "Sorry bout' that. Meant to have her home at a reasonable hour and in a reasonable state but, as you know, she argued her case pretty well."

"I know my own daughter," Mrs. Grey chuckled despite herself. "The lawyer. I expected better from a future doctor such as yourself though, Rick."

He was far from being a respected, reputable doctor – he was barely a functioning volunteer. He dismissed himself, clambering up the familiar steps. The wall to the right of him was inundated with pictures of the family: Michonne, her mother and father and fraternal twin sisters, Anele and Aneni. Rick was always happy to see the couple photos he was in, grinning toothless next to Michonne at birthday parties, walking down the aisles at weddings. He had the same ones of her at his house, not to mention photo albums.

Michonne had left her door open a crack. She was just collapsing face first into a mound of pillows, groaning as she did, when Rick entered. "I take that as a 'we're never doin' that again."

Michonne flipped over, massaging her temple. God, it felt as if someone were stabbing her through the skull. Several times. "Let's never do that again."

Rick dropped on her bed. "I hear eighteen-year-olds in the UK do it all the time."

She smiled, hating and loving him for making her laugh in a moment where she wanted to be miserable. She turned to him, propping her aching head in her hand. "I'm serious, never again. It was awful."

Rick's smile faltered. "It wasn't all that bad. I mean, there were some things you liked, right?"

"No, it was terrible," she insisted, eyes going wide. "All of it. The whole thing. It was stupid and we never should've done it," she blew s steady stream of air out of her mouth. "And we shouldn't tell anyone about it, either."

Rick looked at her as he'd done countless times before, hoping to see a response that way, but her eyes were full of regret. His stomach sank for the first time that day, and it had nothing to do with a hangover.

Of course she didn't want this, whatever he was trying to make it, beyond what they had. Whatever he was feeling, had felt - she didn't. And it was strange to be on that wavelength.

Michonne watched him a bit warily. She always said Rick was somewhat of an open book, and right now the book was flung right open, in bold and italics. He looked a little gutted, honestly.

"Hey," she nudged him. "You ok? Need to throw up?"

He swallowed. "No, I'm good."

She nodded, not totally convinced, but unlike Rick, Michonne had mastered the poker face. "What did your Dad say?"

"Same as always, 'never gonna be a respectable doctor' blah blah. Still thinks you're a saint, though. He thinks _I'm_ the bad influence."

Michonne's grin was slow and teasing. "Well, you kind of are, Rick Grimes. I think it's the general consensus that I'm the sensible one in this relationship."

"Yeah, well, because of you being so _sensible_ ," he playfully poked her side. "I have to stay in the library for an hour after school, studying."

She grimaced. "Lord."

"Yup. It ain't all that bad though," he added in second thought, a slow smile spread across his face. "Jessie Anderson studies at the library every day."

Michonne scoffed. "Jessie Anderson? Forget it, all the guys at school want to sleep with her. Half the girls, too."

Rick almost choked at that. "You part of that half?"

"Oh, you wish."

He shrugged. "She's been looking at me funny lately, so I guess that means somethin'."

"What, that she has eyes? She's probably staring at the zits on your forehead."

Rick pounced her, playfully wrestling her down to the bed as she dissolved into a fit of giggles. They rolled around laughing for a few minutes, until Mrs. Grey called them down for breakfast. Rick was thankful when Michonne's hands slipped into his, as it often did, with none of the baggage of butterflies. That's the way things always were between them. The way they should be.


	2. This Is Just a Phase

Later that day Michonne, determined not to let her hangover ruin the whole day, and Rick, eager to prove he was fine after Michonne's rejection and rid of the lingering memories from the night before, joined their peers for a day at Hershel's diner. The ruckus a band of teenagers made attracted the wary eyes of every adult, but was of course lost on the teenagers themselves.

"Dad says everything on the menu is twenty-five percent off," Maggie announced proudly. "For all students of Landing High."

Applause and hollers petered out following her announcement, and she grinned before taking her place next to Glenn. He put his arm around her and she instantly melted into his embrace.

"You ever think about finding that," Rick nodded towards them. "Real love?"

Michonne snorted, swirling her smoothie with her straw. "You sound like the precursor to every romance story ever."

"C'mon," he nudged her knee. "It doesn't have to be some sweeping romance. Don't you want to share your life with somebody?"

"I'm sharing my life with you."

 _Yeah_ , he though. _But apparently I'm not good enough to kiss._

He shook the thought away, something he found himself doing a lot lately when it came to Michonne.

"Besides," Michonne continued, unable to decipher the look on his face, some form of disappointment she couldn't begin to put her finger on, for the second time that day. "Most marriages end in divorce, and speaking from a lawyer's viewpoint, those can get ugly. So until I find someone who's worth it, it ain't happening." She bit the end of her straw, catching a glimpse of Mike Anthony from across the room. "I'd marry Mike in a heartbeat, though."

Rick followed her line of sight. Mike Anthony sat, as he often did in the school cafeteria, with his legs open wide, grinning widely while his best friend Terry hyped him up. He'd never really seen much in the guy, but Michonne practically drooled whenever they passed each other in the hallways. He tried his hardest not to sound bitter when he said, "So would about ten other girls."

She lifted her brow matter-of-factly, and then flipped her hair over her shoulder. "Well he didn't ask those ten other girls to Prom, did he?"

Rick blinked. "Mike Anthony asked you to prom?"

Michonne nodded eagerly, her eyes lighting up with her excitement. It was all so amusing to him. She put on a front about the cliché's of love and marriage but she would still squeal about a crush to him.

"The day before yesterday, during study period. We just struck up a conversation and he asked me."

Rick nodded, wondering what her exact response was.

"I said no, of course," she answered his unspoken question. "I'm going with you."

As was custom between them, but he wondered if in this instance she resented that. She silenced his doubt with a look. "Stop it. We always go together. Nothing's gonna change that. Not even Mike's gorgeous face. Amazing pecks. Toned – "

"Ok, yeah, I get it."

She laughed, finding his fingers under the table and lacing hers through them.

Jessie Anderson, a platter of chips and dip balanced in her hands, stopped beside their table. Or more specifically, Rick's. For all she acknowledged of her Michonne was next to invisible.

"I hear you'll be spending time at the library," she said, in that overly-zealous cheerleader pitch she could never seem to switch off. "I'll be in the quiet room if you want to find me."

Michonne listed her head to the side, seeing Jessie Anderson as she never had before. Because this girl was flirting with her best friend, and it seemed both too good to believe and yet all too predictable: Jessie Anderson, girl-next-door, and Rick Grimes boy-next-door, together at last.

And Rick was taking the bait, turning bright red beneath his collar. "Yeah, I'll um, find you."

"Good," Jessie grinned, backing away. "I'll see you then."

"'Yeah, I'll um, find you.'" Michonne repeated incredulously, once Jessie was out of earshot. "That was painful, and I've had cramps and a hangover."

"Like you were any better talkin' to Mike. I bet your tongue was rolling on the floor."

"Even if it was, I'd find a way to make it look sexy."

"Alright then," he leaned back, amused. "Teach me some moves then, since you're a regular Casanova."

Michonne cleared her throat. "You gotta act hard. Like you pull a million girls a day."

Rick had to cover his hand with his mouth to keep from snickering.

"Rick, I'm serious! Playing hard to get almost guarantees she'll be all over you. I read it in Cosmo."

"Ok," he admonished, though the playful grin stayed on his face. "Play hard to get. Got it."

"So then," she continued. "After, you gotta wow her. Take her bra off with one hand or something."

"We're already at sex? I play hard to get and then she's undressing in the library?"

Michonne's brows furrowed in confusion. "This was about the sex."

Rick laughed again, though his eyes were on Jessie's table. "I think whatever I'm doing is working so far."

Michonne turned slightly and discreetly to see the other girl giggling with the rest of her very blonde friends, all while she eyed Rick. It took her longer than it should have to look away. "Looks like you don't need my help."

"Oh, don't worry. I'll call you if I ever need help unclasping her bra with one hand."

* * *

 _I can feel your stress. Stop it._

Michonne scribbled out a reply, careful to do so discreetly as Mr. Turner droned on and on about infinite limits.

 _I'm trying to pay attention._

 _Why? You already know this stuff. You'll probably get the highest score in the class, again._

 _You're right. I should be more like you – never paying attention and somehow passing the tests with flying colors. Damn, I really hate being an overachiever sometimes._

He read the paper, mouth twitching. _Guess what?_

Michonne glanced at the suspicious, goofy smile on his face. _WHAT?_

 _I swiped the card._

Michonne wasn't prepared for that revelation, her stomach lurching as she read the words over and over. Rick's uncontainable smile faltered when he noticed her frown.

Slowly, Michonne wrote out her response. _Who's the girl?_

Please not Jessie. Anyone but Jessie.

 _Jessie_

"Shit."

A few heads turned her way, sniggering. Mr. Turner crossed his arms, already honed in on the paper in Michonne's hand like a hawk to a mouse. "I see we're exchanging love notes now?"

Michonne couldn't even think to conjure up some elaborate lie as Turner strolled down the aisle. Rick opened his mouth to make an excuse, and was silenced with a hand. Turner swiped the paper from Michonne's loose grip. He read over it in ten seconds flat and then crumpled it in his hand. "Congrats, Rick, on losing your virginity."

The whole class laughed and jeered, as expected. Turner was notorious for putting his students on the spot, and Rick and Michonne were no exception. Michonne sank into her seat, already done with the school day that had started just an hour before. Rick pinched the bridge of his nose, turning a bright red.

"Alright, yes you hormone crazy beasts, having sex is funny. Michonne, Rick, you have detention after school today."

By lunch, it seemed as if everyone had caught wind of Jessie and Rick's escapades - or sexcapades - from the students, to the faculty and janitors. By fifth period, Michonne was more than a little sick of being prodded about it. As his closest friend, people swore she had all the goods, as if she'd been in the room giving him pointers as they did it. In reality, she couldn't even imagine Rick that way, much less go into detail of his sex life. She didn't want to. Especially not with Jessie. What was worse – and surprising – was all the girls who fawned over the idea of being with Rick himself.

"Imagine doing it with Rick though," one freshman giggled. "I think I'd die."

"Jessie is so lucky," her friend agreed. "If I had a Rick Grimes, I'd ride that boy like a pony."

Michonne had to bite the inside of her cheeks to keep from laughing. After the girls left she lingered in the bathroom, thinking over what they'd said. Rick certainly wasn't ugly, far from it actually, so she could see where the attraction came from. He had filled out pretty well since junior high. He was both smart and kind, something rare in the boys at this school. And it didn't hurt that Jessie liked him. Everyone she acquainted herself with became some sort of entity in this school. She could see it in the way people behaved and treated Rick now, and by association, her. Yeah, she could definitely see why all these girls were hot for him.

It didn't mean she had to like it.

By the time the last bell rang and Michonne found herself in the dilapidated portable they used for detention, she was irritated enough to ignore Rick altogether. By the time he walked in (ten minutes late, with hickey's on his neck) she was resolved to do just that.

"I know you're probably pissed at me but," he rummaged around in his bookbag until he pulled out a brown bag. "I got you pork rinds." He made puppy dog eyes at her shook the bag for emphasis.

She stared at him, stone-faced. She'd been craving them casually yesterday, and he'd remembered despite she herself forgetting, and bought them for her. That was Rick Grimes in a nutshell. God, he made it so damn _easy_. She wilted, scooting her desk next to his and taking the bag from his waiting hand.

"So how was it," Michonne sighed, already regretting she'd asked. "With Anderson?"

"Jessie," he corrected. "It was..."he shook his head, scrubbing his hands over his face. "I can't even describe it."

Michonne popped a rind into her mouth, raising her brows. "Went by that fast, huh?"

"No," he nudged her leg. "It was just that good. And it wasn't even about the sex. The sex itself was ok. It was about everything leading up to the sex. How we felt during it."

Oh, boy.

"I guess what I wanna say is…I've never felt this way, Chonne. About anyone. And that's what made it...good."

Michonne nodded as sympathetically as she could, despite not being able to relate to what he was saying. All the three times she'd had sex were amazingly uninspiring. Rick made sex with Jessie sound like an Oscar-nominated feature film. She shrugged, avoiding his eyes. "Well, at least it matches up to what everyone else thinks it was."

He grinned bashfully. "And what're they sayin'?"

"You haven't heard? Apparently, you and Jessie had earth-shattering sex."

He was both surprised and smug at this revelation. He'd gone the whole day dodging questions out of respect for Jessie and their relationship, blushing whenever someone bought them up and politely declining any interest in details, but he didn't know people had filled in the gaps. "Am I?"

"Mhmm. Don't get cocky, I'm sure Jessie had everything to do with it."

"Well, she was pretty vocal with her satisfaction the night of."

Michonne almost chocked on her rind. "Rick!"

He laughed, and leaned back, running his fingers through his messy curls before clasping them behind his head. He watched Michonne, the way she stared at the board, the way her leg wouldn't stop shaking, the way she avoided his gaze. "Hey," he said softly. "You ok with this?"

Michonne felt her brain stumble at the question. "Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"It's just that," he leaned forward, trying to decipher how to word it. "I know friendships, especially that of the male slash female variety, can get complicated."

She nodded, not missing a beat of where this was headed.

"Sometimes feelings crop up unexpectedly," he shrugged. "Feelings change…"

She stared at him. Had that been hope she heard in his voice, or was her irrational Jessie hatred making her hear things?

"I'm just makin' sure," he clarified, holding up two hands to placate himself with. "You looked a little off when I told you about me and Jess."

"I was just coming to grips with the fact that you told me you lost your virginity on a piece of paper. Anyways, don't worry about it. You'll always be the kid who barfed all over the cake at my 7th birthday party."

He grimaced at that memory. After a few minutes of silence, he said, "She uh…she wants me to take her to prom."

As much as she'd been dreading it, Michonne had seen that coming from a million miles away. A girl like Jessie would want a guy like Rick on her arm come prom night, and especially now that their relationship was gaining popularity. And he wanted to take her, if the hopeful, happy look on his face said anything.

"Take her."

"Really? What about you?"

" _Mike Anthony_ still wants to take me. Trust me, I'll be fine. You take Jessie and…have your fun."

Rick draped his arm around her shoulder and squeezed. "Thanks. For everything. And I'm sorry we got detention, and that you got a B on your Calculus quiz, and that people have been bothering you about the whole sex thing. Just…thanks for being here for me."

"Always have, always will be."

After a second, Michonne leaned into his embrace. She meant it. Rick's happiness came above whatever petty grievances she had with Jessie. The strange, territorial feelings she was having were probably there because this was Senior Year, and she wanted as much of her best friend as she possibly could because next year things would be completely different for them. Jessie just compromised things. Jessie was an adjustment.

Michonne repeated those things to herself. And for what it was, it would've been a great conclusion if she didn't have to periodically remind herself of the same thing over, and over, and over again.


	3. Out of the Frying Pan, into the Inferno

Prom night snuck up behind end-of-year exams and final college decisions as a beacon of light. For the students it was a night to celebrate with their friends, revel, maybe sneak a little alcohol into the punch and let loose. For parents it was an excuse to take a million photos of their kids.

For Michonne, it was deciding whether or not to show cleavage with such an elegant dress.

"How does it look? Be honest, there are no wrong opinions."

Her sister stared her up and down. "More cleavage."

"I thought so, too."

Michonne turned back to her full length mirror. Her dress was long and silken, the color of wine to match the theme of "Romantic Summer Nights". She turned in the mirror, surveying every inch of herself, making sure everything was where it should be. After the year she'd had, things had to go smoothly tonight. It would be the icing on a very lopsided cake.

A distinctive knock sounded at the door. "It ok to come in?"

Rick. Michonne straightened her dress one more time before answering. "Yeah."

Rick entered, and Michonne had to do a double take at the suit he was wearing, all black with gold accents. He was clean shaven, his curly hair neat and defined for once.

Rick had a similar reaction, having never seen his best friend done up like this. All her locs were piled into a high up do that showed off her face, painted carefully with make-up. She'd shown him her dress before, and he'd thought it was pretty before, but on Michonne it was beautiful. "You look…"

She watched him, suddenly shy under his unwavering stare.

"Hot." Aneni supplied.

Rick glanced over Michonne's little sister, so preoccupied with Michonne he hadn't noticed her perched on the bed. "That's right. Thank you.

She winked at him. "I'll be here all day, folks."

Michonne's gratitude translated into beckoning him forward to adjust his tie. "You look good, too. And you didn't even need my help with the tie."

He had actually debated not doing the tie, just to have an excuse for her to fuss over him. He enjoyed the look on her face whenever she concentrated, could almost picture the crease between her eyes as she worked.

She found an excuse to touch him anyways, using her thumb to smooth his flyaway hairs down. "There," she grinned. "Now you're perfect."

After both the Grey's and Grimes bombarded them with photo after photo, they piled into Rick's car and headed for the Hotel.

"What did Jessie say about us going rogue like this," Michonne asked when they entered the parking lot. "She rented a limo, didn't she?"

Rick ran his free hand over his jaw. "She wasn't too happy about it. I don't regret it, though. I don't get to take you to Prom but we do get to drive together."

She put her hand on his, where it draped over the steering wheel. "Thanks for this."

Rick nodded, his eyes drifting away from the parking lot, thinking that maybe he should've called Jessie and told her he felt sick, and Michonne could call Mike and tell him to fuck off, and they'd turn the car around and drive until they got sick of it. He'd tell her everything he'd been feeling since their kiss the night of her birthday, that he was sorry she hated it, and if she wanted they could kiss again, and it could be nothing or it could be everything.

Rick had that faraway look in his eyes again. Michonne brushed her thumb over his hand, raising her brows. "You ready?"

A loud tapping on the window startled her hand off of his. Mike, grinning at them from the other side of the window, Terry beside him. Michonne jumped up in her seat. "Mike!"

His reply was muffled. Rick begrudgingly unlocked the door, which Michonne wasted no time opening. She turned back to Rick, half apologetic. "See you in there?"

"I will."

As he sped away, Mike wasted no time complimenting his date. "Damn girl, you clean up good."

She shrugged, her skin burning under his hungry gaze. She always relished that look he gave her, like he wanted to push her against the nearest wall. Lord knew she'd let him. "Told you I would. You look good, too."

"I look good." Piped Terry.

Michonne gave him a once over. "You look alright."

Terry sucked his teeth. "Mike, talk some sense into your lover."

"Oh, you did not just call me that."

Mike laughed. "I happen to agree with my lover."

* * *

3 AND A HALF HOURS LATER

SAFFRON HOTEL'S PARTY HALL

(MOST OF WHICH RICK AND MICHONNE WERE ENJOYING)

Rick had never seen one person dance so much. He knew Jessie was gifted in a lot of things – cheering, acting, and she played a good flute – but he never knew how versatile her dancing skills were, or how much stamina she possessed, though her record time in the bedroom should have given him a hint.

It took all of his energy to finally plop himself in a seat, while Jessie danced with a bunch of her girlfriends. It made him smile, but it also made him think of Michonne. He hadn't seen her come in and hadn't seen her since it started, which was strange because he saw literally everyone else, and even people he had never seen all his four years at Landing High, but who he'd apparently be graduating with. He thought of calling her, but figured she must be enjoying her time with Rick.

Meanwhile, Michonne had spent the night halfheartedly dancing with Mike and against her better judgement, watching Rick and Jessie steal the show. At first it had been furtive glances, just to see what they were doing. Then she found herself half-obsessed with watching them. Rick was never much of a dancer, but he did well around Jessie. The two of them were so uncoordinated that the mutual awkwardness made them look like capable dancing partners. They looked...cute.

"You wanna sit?" Mike asked, noticing her sudden disinterest.

She was about to decline, but her body felt tired, and so she agreed. Mike took her by the elbow and led her to one of the tables. It was then that Michonne realized she really didn't know anything about him, aside from what everyone else knew. She'd futilely tried to pry answer out of him as they ate, but he was a master of deflecting her questions. He was Mike, the star quarterback. His grades were decent enough to keep him in sports. He had a nice smile, and he was charming, and he liked her, or he did a very good job pretending he did.

Mike pulled his seat next to her, invading her personal space, as he'd done their entire time together. He fished around his pocket and pressed something cold into her hand.

Michonne looked down. It was a key, the number four twenty-seven engraved into it.

"I know some people who work here," he clarified. "I pulled some strings and they got it for me. It's the key for the honeymoon suite, all mine for tonight. Ours if you want to."

Michonne looked down at the key, then at Mike, then back down at the key. Now she understood why he'd been looking at her like that the whole night. Why he was so reluctant to make an effort to get to know her. He wanted to have hotel sex with her in the honeymoon suite this entire time. Here she was thinking she would get to know him, and maybe, if she was lucky, they'd kiss in front of her door.

When Michonne looked at Rick again, Jessie was in his lap, and her hands were in his hair, and they were laughing. Michonne wondered if she could stomach a full night of this – watching them be happy from afar while she pretended to like it when Mike squeezed her ass or told a corny joke. No, Jessie and Rick had occupied too much of her thoughts. She wouldn't let them have tonight, not totally.

"Let's go."

* * *

"Prom King goes to…Rick Grimes!"

Applause followed Rick up the stage as he went up and accepted the crown, Jessie's cheer the loudest as her own crown sat lopsided on her head. He felt himself in a daze as she pulled him down and kissed him feverishly, and felt the flash of a camera behind his closed eyelids. When they pulled apart, his eyes frantically searched the crowd, knowing she'd have some wise ass retort about this, but she was nowhere within sight.

"Has anyone seen Michonne?" he asked Glenn.

Glenn shook his head. "I thought I saw her going upstairs with Mike? Sorry, man."

* * *

The Queen-sized bed was made into the shape of a heart, soft rose petals scattered across gilded, silken sheets. The room also had a love seat, a T.V, a bathroom, and a balcony. Michonne wondered what poor newlyweds had missed their opportunity to stay in this room all because Mike had a boner for her.

"You want something to drink?" he offered, crouching down to peer into the mini-fridge. "They've got soda, sparkling water, wine coolers…"

"No," If she drank she would sit, and the longer she sat, the less likely she was to go through with this. "I want you to come over here and kiss me, though."

Mike smirked, the beer he'd picked up all but forgotten as he sauntered toward where she was. "Is that right?"

"Mhmm."

When he kissed her, it was like her breath was being taken away. Not for any romantic reason, but because he immediately stuck his tongue down her mouth without warning and made it difficult to breath. Michonne pulled away, coughing.

"Oh, shit," Mike said. "You sure you don't want anything to drink?"

Michonne shook her head and backed him up until he fell back onto the bed. "Let's stop talking."

* * *

"Try calling her again."

Rick shook his head, feeling miserable. "She won't answer."

Jessie blew air out of her mouth, having grown bored of the Michonne worry party Rick was had been having for the past ten minutes. She tried so hard to care about her boyfriend's best friend, but the way Michonne had Rick wrapped around her little finger, in a way Jessie never would, did its best to infuriate her. She took her itchy crown off her head and picked up her soda.

"You know, it's too bad. We could've gotten a room here."

"Here? At this hotel?"

"Yeah! I know someone who wanted to give me the key to the honeymoon suite, but they said someone else got to it first." She took a sip of her drink. "Bummer."

* * *

"Do you know…do you know how to put it on? I could help you."

"Of course I do." Mike exasperatedly tugged on the condom, his concentration broken by her hovering. "Shh."

Michonne continued looking over his shoulder, clad in only her bra and underwear, waiting for the magic moment to come. "You have done this before, right?"

"Girl, I have sex for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It's part of a balanced diet. It's practically my cardio."

"M-mine too."

She heard a hard snap of latex. "Oh! Ok, I got it, lay down."

* * *

"Hey, it's Michonne. I'm either busy or I can't be on the phone right now. Leave a message after the beep and I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

"Michonne, it's Rick. Look, I don't know where you and Mike are, but Prom is over and it's time to go home and…I'm worried. Just…meet me by the car."

* * *

As Mike rolled over, breathing heavily, and Michonne lay there, not a drip of sweat exiting her pores, she wondered if she would ever get those four minutes of her life back.

The sex had been four minutes. After he got the condom on, Mike pumped in and out of her until he released, grunted, and rolled over, mumbling that he was tired. Tired from what? She was fucking tired, and she'd done less than him.

"That was so good." Mike's hand landed on her breast, and he fondled it harshly.

"Yeah," she pat his hand. "It was definitely...something."

Her other hand was under the sheet, where she grazed his penis, freezing when she felt flesh. "Where's the condom?"

"What?"

"The condom, Mike," she bolted upright. "The one you just put on, the one you're supposed to have on right now."

She threw the covers back, turning the sheets over, but it was nowhere. On the floor? No, the sex had been too tame. She would have noticed a bright blue condom flying out between them.

But where the hell could an entire condom have gone? "Where is it, where is it?!"

"Stop stressin', we'll find it."

"Stop _stressing_? It's an entire condom filled with your nut! We shouldn't have to find it in the first place!"

If it wasn't on the bed, and it very obviously wasn't hanging off his penis…

"Oh, shit. Oh, _shit_."

* * *

Rick felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Michonne. He couldn't hit the button fast enough. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Rick," she sounded breathless, like she was running. "I need your help."

She whizzed through the hall. Her locs, now loose, flying behind her, her dress now wrinkled and barely buttoned, her heels in her hand as she ran. Mike stayed back in the hotel room, wishing her luck and taking advantage of the free sweets in the mini fridge. She would have hit him if she weren't in such a rush.

"Michonne, what's wrong?" Rick asked, worry etched into his voice.

It was the care in his voice, the one thing she'd needed to hear from Mike, that made her want to crumple into a ball. She wouldn't cry. Not yet, not when she needed a clear head. The elevator doors pushed open and she stepped inside, not even caring what she looked like in front of these dignified hotel-goers. "I need your help, Rick."

On the other end of the line, Rick was a cross between confusion, anger, and worry. "Did he do something to you? Did he hurt you?"

Her eyes stung. She blinked towards the ceiling to stem the flow of tears. "Yes, but not in the way you think, and that's not the problem anyways."

"Then what is it?"

She bit her lip. The elevator was taking its sweet time, Rick was hyperventilating, and she was already screwed enough as it was.

"While Mike and I were having sex, the condom got stuck up my vagina, and now I can't find it."


	4. No Sudden Moves

Hours later they were parked in front of Michonne's house, headlights turned all the way down, two specks in a silent neighborhood.

Michonne had been sent away with a clean bill of health – and a bill she would somehow need to explain to her parents – with nothing but her dress, now limp and wrinkled, and the last shreds of her dignity.

And Rick, who'd waited in the emergency holding room the entire time, refusing to sleep or sit still until he knew she was ok.

"I gotta say, this tops just about every embarrassing thing that's ever happened to me."

"Even – "

"Yes."

"And – "

She gave him a look, knowing just what he was referring to by tone, and he relented.

"S'not so bad," Rick brushed dust off his steering wheel. "I've seen worse. People come into the clinic with hot dogs stuck down there, sex toys, kitchen appliances…"

She didn't want to laugh, because now she was technically now one of those people, but she did anyways, Rick's tired, hearty laughter trailing her own.

"So a condom," he assured her. "Is definitely not the worst there's ever been."

Her laughter faded into a smile as she gazed at him, truly grateful to have a someone like him, not just for the embarrassing moments, but for the laughs that followed them. "How mad is the Prom Queen?"

Rick sighed, running his hands over his face. Jessie had been ringing his phone for a good portion of the night, demanding to know what was really going on, even though he'd told her as much as he could, excluding the exact details for obvious reasons.

"She's upset." Michonne concluded.

"I'll make it up to her." His hand grazed over the phone in his right pocket as he thought of doing just that.

"What about you and Mike?"

Michonne sighed, looking out into the street again. She thought she saw a quick sudden movement, but it turned out to just be Finley, Mrs. Reinhart's dog. "There is no me and Mike anymore."

Rick raised a questioning eyebrow. "You seemed really into him. And he seemed really into you."

"Yeah, well," she picked at invisible threads on her dress. "He's not who I think he is. He didn't even care, after, about the condom."

"Do you think he'll tell anyone at school?"

She shrugged. "That he fucked me in the honeymoon suite? Maybe. That it lasted four minutes and the condom got stuck inside me? I somehow doubt it."

"What did you ever see in him," Rick said. "No offense, but I never got it."

 _And I never got what you saw in Jessie._ "He's popular, good looking," she shrugged again. "He gave me attention. The wrong kind of attention, but it was still nice. And I think the real problem is that I was jealous of you and Jessie."

Rick blinked, thinking he'd heard her wrong for a second there. "You're jealous of Jessie?"

"What you two have," she clarified. "It came out of left field, and it's so strange, but it works. I was watching you two tonight, and it just – it made me upset that I never had that, and you two did, and so I just went off with Mike, hoping it would fix something and coming out with, well, this." She slumped, exhausted but grateful she'd finally gotten that off her chest.

Rick nodded. Some part of him had been expecting to hear a very different confession, but he quelled it, and this was what he was getting. "That's ironic. Jess is jealous of us."

"She is?"

"She won't admit it, but I can tell. Every time I let her down to hang out with you, every time we look at each other and know exactly what the other is thinkin'. It's there."

Michonne had never noticed. She and Jessie always ignored each other if they could, but she was finding out that Jessie really was quite the little actress.

"But I'm sorry that you felt that way." Rick said softly, catching and holding her eyes.

"I'm sorry I felt that way. I'm sorry it's led us to this disastrous night."

"Michonne, y-you should know," he bit his lip, nervous suddenly. "You're amazing. I – I think you're amazing. You're smart, and you're funny, and you're beautiful, and one day you'll find someone who thinks the world of you and more. And screw Mike for not seein' that."

She smiled, tears pricking her eyes. "Thank you."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Michonne felt incredibly warm after Rick's words to her, and even more so snuggled in his coat. She suddenly didn't want to move, didn't want to trudge up the steps and risk waking her family, who would then bombard her with a million questions, and then try to get some sleep while wrestling her own nagging thoughts.

"Let's go." Rick said.

"Hershel's might still be open."

"No, Chonne. I mean let's get out of Atlanta, both of us. Let's go to Harvard."

Michonne blinked. "Harvard? As in, Cambridge, Massachusetts Harvard?"

He nodded, realizing how ridiculous he sounded, but not willing to back down now that the idea had cropped up. "Why not?"

"Rick, I promise not to get sent to the emergency room while you're away, if that's what you're worried about."

"Why not?" He repeated, ignoring what she'd said. "What's in it for you, staying in Atlanta? Harvard has the nation's best law program. You'd thrive there."

"Rick, I don't – "

"You're the one who always said Atlanta's a dead end. So let's get out of here."

She was so used to convincing him to take chances, it was a little jarring being on the receiving end of it. "I'm already going to Georgia State, you know that."

"So don't go." he pleaded, blue eyes going soft.

"Rick," she blew out a breath of frustration. "I can't just up and leave to Harvard. Do you remember what you went through with that application process?"

"Yes, but I also remember you helping me, damn near understanding things better than I did. I also remember you getting a higher SAT score than me, and having more community service hours, and having one of the highest GPA's in the school."

"Rick…"

"You and me. Just you and me, turning Harvard on its head together. You and me against the world, just like it's always been. I'd want that if it's – if it's something you wanted."

She and Rick had always talked about running away together, usually during moments of resentment for their school or their life. They'd always known the world had more to offer than Atlanta, and intended to find it. But when Michonne had decided settle for Georgia State for the sake of her family, and Rick to Harvard by the wishes of his parents, they figured they would have to explore the world from separate places.

But now, what Rick was proposing was entirely more enticing. An entire state for their leisure, with no parents and no past to shadow them. It could be a fresh start. And maybe Michonne couldn't go back and change this night, but the rest of her life was up for grabs.

If she would take it.

When she smiled at him again, it was brilliant, but more importantly, it was sure. "Yeah."

* * *

THE NEXT DAY

BREAKFAST AT THE GREY HOUSE

(MOST OF WHICH MICHONNE WAS TOO UPSET TO EAT)

"No, you aren't going to Harvard."

Michonne stared at her mother, her mouth hanging open. Incredulity didn't even begin to cover it. "But it's Harvard!"

Her mother slammed cupboards open and close, putting various dishes away. Anele and Aneni, sensing a mother-daughter argument, had silently dismissed themselves to eat breakfast in the living room.

"I don't care if it's Harvard, you're not going."

"That's not – "

"Do you know how it felt to be told, in the middle of the night, that you'd been rushed to the hospital for having a condom stuck up your garage?"

Michonne pinched the bridge of her nose. "Mom, for the last time, it was a mistake. I'm sorry. _I'm sorry._ "

"Harvard will be a mistake, and you'll be sorry you went."

"Good morning!" Her father came booming into the kitchen then, complete in his work attire. "Why is there so much tension in here this lovely Saturday morning?"

Michonne sighed as her father pressed a kiss to her temple. "Mom won't let me apply to Harvard."

"What she means is, her mother thinks it's idiotic for her to move several states away without her support system."

"I'll have a support system. Rick will be there."

"Because Rick is so good at stopping you from getting into trouble?"

Michonne narrowed her eyes at her mother, because she was crossing a line. "Are you serious right now? None of the things I've done – getting drunk, having to go to the hospital – none of those were his fault. If he weren't there – "

"That's the thing," her mother said harshly. "Rick won't always be there to save you. What happens when he has to be somewhere else, or he gets married and has a family, and his first priority isn't you? Would you want him to drop everything then? Would he even hesitate?"

"Ok, ok," her father stepped, literally and figuratively, between the two women. "That's enough arguing for now. We're all mad, and we need a breather. Michonne, come on. Come help your Dad get to work."

Michonne knew not to argue, silently getting out of her seat and taking her father's bag by the door. She avoided her mother's eyes as she helped him into his coat.

The car ride was silent for the first two minutes, but then her father cleared his throat. "You know your mother loves you, right?"

"She sure has a funny way of showing it."

"Now stop that," her father warned. "You know why she doesn't want you to go."

Michonne rolled her eyes. "She doesn't trust me."

"She's worried you're jumping into this."

"Well, I'm not. And anyways, it's Harvard. It's not like I'm running away to sell drugs. It's the best thing for my future, Dad."

"Oh, don't start on me. _I_ want you to go."

She studied the side of his face. "You do?"

"That's right," He nodded vigorously. "Ever since you told me you wanted to be a lawyer, I've wanted Harvard for you. Nothing less than best for my baby."

She smiled, despite resolving herself to scowling for the rest of the day. "I want my own law firm, Dad. Is it wrong to think so big?"

"No, it isn't. You'll absolutely get your own law firm one day. I believe that, baby."

Mr. Grey had grown up the oldest child of five children in a single-parent home, and after seeing his mother struggle to see ends meet, had vowed to give his children a better life. He'd succeeded so far, as his family lived in one of the nicest neighborhoods in Atlanta, and a bill never went unpaid, a mouth unfed. Still, he wanted more for them.

"Mom's never gonna speak to me if I go."

"Well I'll never speak to you if you don't. And I'll always give you the smallest drumstick."

Michonne giggled, hitting his arm. "Ok."

He held her hand there, looking into the eyes that mirrored his wife's. "Go to Harvard. Be great. Your mother will forgive you. I'll be talking to her tonight."

She beamed at that. "Thanks, Dad."

They reached the front of the offices he worked in, and after he'd parked the car, Michonne threw her arms around her father, wished him good luck, and set off to find the bus stop, his encouraging words warming her from the inside.


	5. Shit to Manure

"Somethin' came in the mail for you, baby!"

Michonne made a noise of acknowledgement, but couldn't bring herself to muster up to her Dad's level of excitement. She'd woken up feeling particularly drab and irritable, and not even her father's chipper mood could permeate that. "What is it?"

He dropped the thick envelope on the table next to her, and pulled the seat across from her. "Let's find out."

Her eyes nearly bulged out of her head when she saw the Harvard sigil, but then her heart almost leapt out of her throat when she saw how thick the envelope was. Were rejection letters ever this thick? Michonne pushed her cereal away, no longer hungry.

Her father chuckled. "Well? You gonna open it?"

She touched the envelope and then drew her hand away as if it burned her. "What if they didn't accept me?"

"What's in here," he tapped her temple. "Will always matter more than whatever is in this envelope."

Michonne cracked a smile, and without warning, threw her arms around her father. He held her there at the kitchen table, laughing as he rubbed her back.

"Now enough of that," he said as she drew back. "Open the damn thing already!"

Michonne laughed, finding her cheeks already wet with tears. She wished Rick were there with her, because then she'd have the two people who believed in her from the start with her, and it would be perfect.

She held her breath as she tore the envelope open, even as she read the letter to herself.

Oh, God.

"I got in."

* * *

There seemed to be no time. Michonne dashed across the street, the letter fluttering in the slight wind as she ran and all but flung herself at the Grimes door. There were no cars in the driveway, but she knew both Mr. and Mrs. Grimes were at work, and Rick's car was still at the mechanics, so he had to be home.

After two full minutes of frantic door pounding with no answers, she turned to her last resort; the key they left in the flower pot, which she was only supposed to use in case of emergencies, but this was urgent enough that she didn't care. Their mat said welcome, anyways.

The house was silent when she walked in, but there was faint music floating down, probably from Rick's room. Michonne was just about to dash up the steps when she heard it. A moan, floating down from the top.

It was low, but it was succinct. Michonne stopped, one foot poised on the edge of the steps, ears straining.

Someone was definitely moaning, and they weren't at all being quiet about it. She heard Rick's voice, and then Jessie's, and then it got...weird.

"Oh my God, _yes_ , Rick, God yes."

She pressed her lips together to keep from bursting with laughter. First the acceptance letter, now this. None of it seemed real.

Jessie's moans rose higher and higher. "YES. GIVE IT TO ME, YEAH, RIGHT THERE – "

A different, unpleasant feeling came over her then, as she thought of the two of them on Rick's tiny bed, sweating it out. And since when did Rick become a sex god? By Jessie's standards, at least. And those standards had to be pretty high. It was literally making her sick.

As her stomach lurched she thought of running back, but it was too late. Nausea swept in. Michonne held onto the counter, swallowing. "Oh, God…"

"OH, GOD!"

Michonne didn't have time to barrel into the bathroom, and refused to vomit on the Grimes pristine floor, so she opted for the flower pot that sat on the counter, hurling all her breakfast into it.

* * *

Michonne was wandering. No, wandering was the wrong way to put it. She was deliberately circling Atlanta, an embroidered vase in her hand, the Harvard letter now tucked into her coat pocket. She'd turned her phone off and went to the park, picked a nice shady spot under the tree, and thought about her life to that point.

She liked to think she was smart. She did stupid things, sure, but what teenager didn't? Her grades never slipped, she always remembered her manners, and she wasn't cruel. And she definitely wasn't pregnant.

It was something she told herself within two minute intervals. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and she definitely wasn't pregnant. That man and his wife are arguing, that girl needs to tie her shoes, and there was no way she could be pregnant.

Because Michonne was careful. Michonne had taken the morning after pill.

She didn't know how long she sat under that tree, but she knew when she came back to her senses the sun was going down. She pitched up to her feet and immediately felt dizzy, like her entire body was screaming at her. Now that she was deliberately working to avoid it, the realizations hit her all at once. She was reminded how fatigued she'd been the past two weeks, even if all she did was lay in her bed all day. She suddenly hated the smell of her father's pot roast. She remembered crying this morning, and snapping at her little sister the night before. Her breasts were sore, but her period never came.

She knew people who worked at the common drug stores, so she chose a little nondescript one to go into. The whole place smelled of smoke and incense. The blonde girl behind the counter, who looked about her age, smiled behind a cloud of smoke.

"Are you allowed to smoke in here?" Michonne asked.

The girl looked a little offended, as if Michonne were the one smoking a cigarette. "No offense, but I work here. I can do whatever I want."

"Oh, ok," Michonne shook her head, feeling like she was in a dream. "Well, I need some help. I haven't been feeling good."

The girl put her cigarette out, picked up a brown clipboard, and began rattling off symptoms.

"Fever?"

"No."

"Nausea?"

"Yes."

"Diarrhea?"

"No."

"Fatigue?"

"Yes."

The girl lowered the clipboard. "Have you gotten your period?"

Michonne shook her head, knowing all this did was confirm her worst fears. Still, she wanted to hear it from another person.

"I can't be pregnant." She blurted out quickly.

The other girl raised her eyebrows. "Are you a virgin?"

"No, but I took the morning after pill."

"You and I both know that doesn't always work."

She ducked down. Michonne heard rummaging sounds, and then she reappeared holding a pink box. Michonne felt her stomach flip, and wondered if she'd be needing the vase again.

The other girl bit her lip, feeling sorry for this poor girl who'd wandered into her parents sad little pharmacy. "There's a bathroom here if you want to use it."

Michonne nodded.

"I'm Andrea, by the way. Andrea Harrison."

"Thanks, Andrea."

She smiled coyly. "Don't mention it."

Michonne followed Andrea to the back where the bathrooms were, feeling like she was in an alternate reality. In some other world she was celebrating her Harvard acceptance with Rick, and that prom night was still a memory they cringed and laughed at. That reality seemed far as Andrea gave her a tight smile and wished her good luck before shutting the door.

* * *

ONE HOUR LATER

MICHONNE'S BEDROOM

(MOST OF WHICH SHE PACED)

After the first test came out positive, Michonne had taken another one from a different, more revered brand, and the test results came out positive again. She'd gone home crying, pregnant, and broke, with a stolen vase that smelled like puke.

She finally stopped her pacing and lay in bed. No one was home – her father was still working and her mother and the twins were at a recital. She had the liberty to scream her lungs out if she wanted, but even that seemed like a lot of work.

She didn't know anything about being pregnant. She always took pity on those girls who waddled around school, not wanting to judge but knowing their lives would never be the same. She never in a million years imagined she could be one of them.

She also never thought she'd get a condom stuck up her vagina either, but that had happened, too.

Michonne reached for her phone, the buttons feeling like weights as she pushed down on them until she found the name of the one person who's voice she wanted to hear.

Rick picked up on the third ring. "Hey, stranger."

"You're the stranger," Michonne grumbled. "What's up?"

He sounded uneasy. "Actually, I'm on my way to have dinner with Jessie's parents. You know that Italian restaurant we're always making fun of? Turns out Jessie's Dad owns half of it."

Michonne rolled her eyes. Because of course. What else was there? Could Jessie fly? Did she shit rainbows, too?

"Really?" She tried to make herself sound cheerful, grateful he couldn't see her face, because it would betray her.

"Yeah! Oh, you should meet them, Chonne. Her Mom is actually teachin' me a bit of Italian. Her Dad is crazy smart, too. Knows about four different languages. Jessie knows French and Italian."

 _REALLY? WELL FUCK JESSIE! FUCK HER AND THAT RESTAURANT AND HER LANGUAGE-SAVVY MOTHER AND FATHER!_

Her eyes began to well with tears. He sounded so happy. He was so happy. She wanted him to be this way all the time.

"You ok?" He asked after a minute. "You're quiet."

She took a deep, shuddering breath. "I just wanted to hear your voice."

"What's wrong?" His voice was low now, and she knew if he were here with her he'd stare deep into her eyes and rub her shoulder until she cried and confessed. His voice alone over the phone was crumbling all her resolve.

"Rick," she swallowed, squeezing her eyes shut. "I'm – "

"Rick!" It was Jessie's voice, muffled on the other line. "We'll be late if we don't leave now!"

Rick's response was muffled to Michonne. "Ok, gotta go. Love you."

"Love you – "

The line went dead.

" – Too."

* * *

THE NEXT DAY

THE HARRISON PHARMACY

(MOST OF WHICH MICHONNE THOUGHT COULD USE SOME EXTREME RENOVATING)

"There's no way out of this."

"There's always a way out."

She and Andrea stood at the checkout counter. It was a relatively slow day, customers trickling in and out, until Andrea had told her people hardly ever came in and the family business was hanging on by a thread. She informed Michonne that so far, she was their most loyal customer, coming in a grand total of two times. Michonne found comfort there, the one place no one else would think to find her.

"I mean, how am I gonna tell my parents? They were so excited for me. My Mom was just coming around to the idea of me leaving for Harvard. And Rick…"

Andrea grimaced. "Tell that bastard he's the father."

"No," Michonne laughed. "Rick's not the father. He's my best friend, who I was _supposed_ to be going to Harvard with. Mike is the father."

"Wow," Andrea crossed her arms, impressed. "You're turning out to be more and more interesting than I originally thought."

"You have no idea."

She pushed off the counter and turned to rearranging more boxes. "You can always abort it. I know a few people. You'd be in and out in no time, like it never happened."

"Have you ever done it?"

"God, no," she shivered. "I could never let myself get pregnant, no offense."

Michonne frowned, chewing the inside of her cheek. "No. My Mom's really against that thing and...I could never. It would traumatize me. And If I did it, I'd have to tell her. I don't know if I could live with myself if I went that route."

Andrea rolled her eyes. "It's a cluster of cells right now, promise."

Michonne gave a firm shake of her head, and that was the end of that discussion. No matter how much she wanted to distance herself from her parents views, they would find some way to haunt her.

Andrea sighed, drumming her fingers against the counter as she eyed her new friend. "What about Mike? Give it to him."

Mike was the last person she wanted to talk to, let alone give an entire baby to. He hadn't spoken to her since the condom debacle, and last she heard, had went to vacation in Florida as soon as school ended. "He's not here. I'm pretty sure he doesn't want this either. I already left him about a dozen voicemail's." To no avail, of course.

Michonne groaned. "It wasn't supposed to be like this! I was supposed to go to law school, meet someone, open up a firm, get married and after I'd established myself as a successful lawyer, have children."

Andrea scoffed. "Wow, an entire list."

Michonne sniffed, picking off a lollipop from the shelf. "Color coded, with bullet points."

"What about adoption? A lot of people who want kids can't even have them. Just give it up."

Michonne lifted her head slowly. It was as if Andrea's suggestion had turned a switch. "Rick and I could still go to Harvard together."

Andrea's face fell. "You're kidding. I mean, I wasn't being serious. You're not actually considering this, are you?"

"No, Andrea, it's genius. I stay here, do the work, have the baby, give them to some nice infertile couple, and then go to Harvard. Rick won't have to know."

"But he'll put two and two together. He'll figure it out."

"Not if I'm careful."

"Didn't you say he was a doctor?"

"Technically, he's not a doctor...yet. His parents are, so he knows all the jargon. And anyways, he won't be seeing me big bellied. No one will."

Andrea shook her head. "Michonne, this is a heaping pile of shit."

"Yeah, well," she popped the candy into her mouth. "Shit makes manure."

* * *

A/N: Cast Some Light: That wasn't! But now that you mention it I'll have to get into Pride and Prejudice.

MannaRN: It is a wedding. We just don't know who's it is (yet).


	6. A Change of Plans

It wasn't like she didn't want to tell him.

But as Michonne went back and forth with herself over whether or not to confess, her mother's stinging words from two months earlier swirled and stung her thoughts. In retrospect, there was nothing Rick and Michonne hadn't shared with one another. They knew almost everything about the other, from the ugly to the insignificant. Rick knew exactly where Michonne was most ticklish and he'd been at her side every day she'd had the stomach flu. Likewise, Michonne knew where he bruised easiest and had stayed up on the phone with him the whole night as he grieved his grandfather. Where Rick was, it was almost guaranteed Michonne would be a few feet away. It was almost insulting to even think of keeping things from one another.

And there was the problem.

" _Rick won't always be there to save you. What happens when he has to be somewhere else, or he gets married and has a family, and his first priority isn't you? Would you want him to drop everything then? Would he even hesitate?"_

What scared her the most is that he wouldn't. If Rick knew Michonne were pregnant, he would fall into the same pattern of obliging her and their bond. He would stay because she would stay, for however long that may be. Harvard suddenly wouldn't matter. They could take a gap year, he'd insist on it.

And where did that leave him? How would that benefit either of them? His dreams delayed because of her stupid mistake? No, she wouldn't let it happen. She'd resent herself for the rest of her life if it did. Rick would never admit it – he was too good a person to admit it – but a part of him would resent her, too.

And if she had to lie to him to prevent that, she would.

* * *

HERSHEL'S DINER

THREE DAYS AFTER THE POSITIVE TEST

(MOST OF WHICH MICHONNE WAS STILL SHAKEN BY)

Michonne picked apart the buttered rolls set before her. She was ripping pieces and chewing carefully, wary of eating too quickly in case her stomach changed course. Now that she knew she was pregnant, her body seemed intent on reminding her at every turn. She was lethargic all the time, threw up in the mornings _and_ evenings, and could barely stand on two feet without swaying or wanting to pivot. More than anything, she wanted to lay down.

But there would be plenty of time to feel sorry for herself later. She had things to do, plans to get in order.

She didn't need to look behind her to know Rick had come in. The familiar huskiness of his voice, the way his favorite pair of boots squeaked against the polished floor were all too familiar to her. He brushed his hand along her shoulder and slid into the chair opposite her, dripping wet hair onto the table top. "Sorry I'm late. Jessie and I were…"

Michonne chuckled, wordlessly pointing at his wet hair.

"Jessie likes it like this," he ran his fingers through the sopping wet curls. "Says it makes me look like I'm on the cover of a magazine."

"I'm gonna stop you right there," Michonne smiled softly. "Have you told her?"

Rick blew air out of his mouth, a definite no. He and Jessie were well aware college would bring about the end of their romantic relationship, which was part of the reason they'd spent the past few weeks wrapped up in each other. Jessie would be going to L.A for auditions and Rick to Boston with Michonne.

Michonne looked down, tracing dollops of water with her finger. "You should talk about it, Rick."

"I will."

"When?"

Instead of answering, he studied her, the way she slouched, the puffiness around her eyes that made clear she'd been crying.

"Since when did you start caring about Jessie?"

"I care about you."

He stared at her a few seconds, and she knew the question he'd asked before it came out his mouth. "No, they haven't." At least her poker face was still fully functional.

"That makes no sense. You should've gotten something by now – even if it's a rejection letter, which it won't be."

Michonne swallowed. "Rick, you leave in two weeks."

"And I'm leavin' with you."

She almost winced at the indirect confirmation to her earlier dilemma. If she told him now, there would be no Boston for him without her. This was proof, the final nail in the coffin. Her resolve stiffened.

He reached across the table for her hand, and she obliged almost imperceptibly. The last time they'd been here together, her future had lay before her like a well-done puzzle. Now it scattered in hazy pieces, some too far to reach, some undefinable.

"I'll come to Boston," she promised. "Just not with you, not right now. Maybe it'll be a month from now, maybe more. But I'll be there."

He nodded, but she knew, and he knew, it still bothered him. Had he known their plans would be derailed he would have curdled his time with Jessie and spent whatever time he had left with Michonne.

Her hand closed around his, her lie still acrid on her tongue. "Doesn't matter where you are, I'm still with you."

But his returning words were sincere, and that was what killed her. "Always."

* * *

TWO WEEKS LATER

ATLANTA AIRPORT

(MOST OF WHICH MICHONNE BELIEVED TO BE THE TENTH CIRCLE OF HELL)

"Call me as soon as you get there. Don't forget that your medicine is in the small pouch, the one you never think to look in."

"Yeah, I know."

For someone moving miles and miles away, Rick felt pretty good. Excited, even. He'd been on a plane several times before, but now he wouldn't have his parents with him, a fact which both thrilled and scared him. Now he would be coasting all the way to Boston, alone, with only a weathered map and his own menial knowledge to go by. Michonne had been buzzing around him since the crack of dawn, making sure he had everything in order down to the last pair of socks. The only thing missing would be her.

His break-up with Jessie had been surprisingly painless and amicable, with a few tears shed on Jessie's part. They'd both known a break-up was inevitable, so they had no qualms about remaining friends., though he wasn't sure how long that would last.

Leaving Michonne, though, his parents, all his life-long friends, was a different story.

"This is it," Michonne said, her voice barely carrying above a whisper. "Write to me, Rick. I mean it."

He grinned, but it cracked as he stepped closer to her. "I'll write, call, scream across the country if that's what I gotta do."

He'd hope to illicit that smile in her, he just didn't anticipate the fresh flood of tears following it.

"Hey," he said, wrapping his arms around her, swiping the tears on her cheeks. "This isn't goodbye. I'll see you again."

"I know," she let out a small sob into his shoulder, staining the material with her tears. "Doesn't make it any easier."

They stood there for a moment, two still figures in a sea of chaos. And then Rick pulled away just enough to fish something out of his pocket. "I, uh, got something for you. Been waitin' to show you all day."

Michonne smiled as he produced a tiny, dime sized cat hanging on a key chain. And then she started to laugh, because it was exactly something he'd waltz into a store for. She'd always wanted a cat, but could never have one because her father was allergic.

"It ain't much, but," he shrugged. "Thought you'd like it."

She shook her head. "It's perfect."

Their hands caught as she went to take the chain from him, and their fingers locked, and then intertwined. He was standing so close to her, holding the small of her back gently with his hand, smelling just like Rick – pine and freshly washed clothes. Their eyes locked, and all Michonne could think of in the moment was that if she tilted her head up a little more, their lips would brush together.

But then Rick did brush his lips against her skin, grazing her cheek with a kiss before resting his forehead against hers. Michonne never closed her eyes, darting them around the planes of his face and committing them to memory.

Rick's terminal was called, and he pulled away with a twinge of reluctance. "See you soon."

"See you."

He nodded, lingering for a few seconds before turning away. Michonne watched him get swallowed into the crowd of people, and still searched for his back when she knew he was long gone.

And then she was alone.

She pulled her long sleeves over her wrists, suddenly subconscious, and started the long trek back to her car. The next few months would be long and difficult, and she was only half-ready for them, but if they were what came with the change of plans, she would face them head on.


	7. Weeks Gone By

Michonne watched blankly as her lunch floated before her.

She was in the cramped restroom of the Harrison pharmacy, a place she would forever associate with panic, so it seemed grossly fitting she'd end up back there, throwing her guts up until she was sure there was nothing left inside her. She was approaching her second trimester and still threw up every day, something her doctor told her happened to a handful of millions of pregnant women, because of course.

Michonne hauled herself up, flushed the toilet with her foot, and went to go wash her hands and gurgle water in her mouth. The girl that looked back at her in the mirror had fat around her face, swollen lips, and watery eyes. She turned to the side and lifted up her shirt. Her bump was prominent now, and bought with it tiny stretch marks that webbed their way around her hips. She was changing in none of the ways she ever thought she would.

She wondered if she'd ever recover. If when she got to Boston Rick would take one look at her and know, and know she'd lied, and if that would be the end of them.

There was a tentative knock on the door. "Michonne, are you ok? Do you need water?"

Michonne pulled her shirt down. "Yes, please. And a bottle of mouthwash."

The last few weeks had been a whirlwind for her, between telling her parents, and after they'd barely processed it, telling them she wouldn't be keeping the baby. There were tears and there was yelling but in the end it was the same – she was pregnant, there would be no Harvard until there was a baby, and there would be no baby because of Harvard.

Anele and Aneni were excited until Michonne explained to them that their new niece or nephew wouldn't be sticking around.

Anele crinkled her nose in thought. "What's the point of having a baby if you aren't going to keep it?"

Her twin nodded, and then looked at their older sister for answers.

"Well it's not always that simple," Michonne explained patiently. "Not everyone has what it takes to take care of a baby. Sometimes they don't have money, or they know they can't be a good Mommy."

"But Mich, we have money, and you would be a good Mommy. You take care of us pretty good. Except when you don't let us get cookies. Actually, maybe you shouldn't be a Mommy after all."

Michonne and Andrea threw themselves into adoption agencies, poring over phone books and splitting their time equally between the pharmacy and the library. Michonne wanted to pick the very best one, because if she wasn't going to take care of this baby, she could at least guarantee them somewhat of a good life, even if it meant staying up all night worrying over what that life might entail.

"I can't imagine my life without my parents," she confided in Andrea one day while they waited for a specialist to return their call. "Handing off this kid without knowing what could be, what their life might be like…it's eating at me."

Andrea nodded sympathetically. "No one said it'd be easy. I mean, of course you're gonna feel like an asshole, but the fact that you're even doing this shows how much you care. Maybe that's enough."

Michonne didn't know what to say to that, but she didn't expect Andrea to be a sage source of advice on a topic like this, so she let it go.

She sometimes wondered what Rick would say. Knowing how he was, he'd probably want her to keep the baby. There would be some way, some loophole, some chance. She missed that optimism. Andrea's bluntness was appreciated, but it sometimes clashed with Michonne's realistic to pessimistic tendencies.

She missed her best friend. She still expected to hear his signature knock on the door at seven o' five sharp. She kept their conversations on the phone short and sweet, for both their sake, but she would later comb through what they'd said for hours, thinking of how she could work a pregnancy reveal in some way. _"Oh, I knew you would do good on that project! I'm pregnant, by the way."_

Sometimes she would call just to hear his voice, and one of them would talk until the other fell asleep, just like when they were kids. She savored everything – the dorky pictures he sent her, the texts, the letters.

The first time Andrea saw a proper picture of Rick, she over poured her coffee.

"Crap," she muttered, while Michonne smirked and handed her napkins. "That is a face that makes you spill coffee. I mean, damn."

Michonne laughed. "I'll make sure to let him know you think he has a nice face."

"Don't stop there. Tell him I want to lick the side of it."

Michonne laughed again, this time almost choking on her water. "Andrea!"

Andrea shrugged. "He's really good looking, Mich. I would've gone to Boston pregnant and all, just to see that face every day. I mean, how have you not had his tongue down your throat yet?"

"Ordinarily, best friends don't make-out."

"I'd make an exception."

"Oh, I bet you would."

* * *

4 MONTHS AFTER LEAVING FOR BOSTON

A FRAT PARTY

(MOST OF WHICH RICK STOOD AWKWARDLY IN A CORNER OF)

"It's Rick, right? Rick Grimes?"

Rick nodded, though he was only half-listening. He was thinking of the essay due at 11: 00 P.M, and how it was approaching 10: 00 P.M and he was at a party he didn't want to be in in the first place. The girl in front of him seemed nice enough, pretty, kind, a little chatty. She'd rambled for ten straight minutes without asking his name.

"Yeah, it – it's Rick. What was your name again?"

"Katherine, but my friends call me Kat. What did you say your major was again?"

"I didn't. You were – "

"That's right! I was talking about how much I hate my roomie. I mean it's not that I don't like her, it's just that she's always touching my things…"

Rick shifted uncomfortably. He felt a clap on his back. Shane, smelling faintly of alcohol, grinning from ear to ear. "Hey, man. I see you met my girl Kat."

Kat stopped mid-rant to greet him. Shane winked at her before rounding on Rick, keeping his voice low. "Hey, man, a bunch of us were gonna go out to a different party. Wanna come?"

Rick rubbed the back of his neck. He didn't like this party, so he sincerely doubted he'd enjoy the next. "Don't think so. I have an essay due later. You go, though. Have your fun. Don't forget to give whoever you're screwing back their lacy thongs."

Shane chuckled. "Slicky dick Rick, you are somethin' else. I know at least four girls here, not including Kat, who want to screw you, and you'd rather go to the dorms to do what? To write an essay?"

"Yeah," Rick said confusedly, ignoring what he'd said about the girls. "That's kinda what we're here for."

"Right, but you're here, and there are vulnerable girls with nice tits and firm asses and you're dodging them like they're the plague."

Rick sighed, looking into his cup. Sometimes he thought Shane wanted him to get laid more than he actually wanted to get laid. Of course he noticed all the girls who came up to him, smelling strongly of perfume, batting their lashes, finding excuses to touch his arm and laugh at everything he said. He'd be an idiot not to.

"Is it Michonne?"

Rick's head snapped up at the mention of her name. "What?"

"Michonne," Shane grinned again, a hint of malice on his face. "The girl you're always on the phone with. The one you write letters to. You hung up on her?"

Something feathered in Rick's jaw. It was a fair inquiry, but something about hearing Shane talk about Michonne didn't sit right with him. "You don't know anything about that."

"Don't I? You talk to her in this low voice and you never want to show me what you write. I've seen pictures of her, Rick. It's ok to have jungle fever. Happens to the best of us."

Rick blinked, inching his head slightly to the right as he squinted at Shane. "Jungle fever? Scuse' me?"

Shane lifted his hands to placate himself, seeing his friends tense and thinking twice. "I'm just playin', man. What I mean is – you're here. You got into Harvard. It'd be a shame not to fuck a few pretty girls, at least."

Rick downed his drink, crinkled it, and threw it into the nearest trash can. He turned for the door, barely giving Shane a glance behind his shoulder. "Like I said, give them back their underwear. I'm sick of finding those things lying around the room."

He ended up back in the dorms. His essay only needed a bit of polishing, and he'd sent it in with thirty minutes to spare. That gave him plenty of time to stare at the ceiling.

He _was_ hung up on Michonne, though not in the way Shane would've liked to think. She was supposed to be there with him, and she wasn't, and it bothered him. That was perfectly normal.

But he'd never thought of it in the context of his dating life. Girls approached him but it never went beyond simple conversations. Never mind that he hadn't had sex in almost five months. Women just weren't his priority right then, he told himself. And that was fine.

Well, one was.

* * *

The first time Michonne felt her baby move, she held her breath.

She'd been sitting in the library with Andrea, fresh from a meeting with her adoption specialist, and she felt it. A flutter, barely there, but it was something. She stiffened and held her breath.

Andrea, sitting across the table from her, didn't notice, engrossed in some erotic romance novel.

Michonne stood up. "I have to pee."

Andrea grunted, flickering her eyes toward her friend. "Do you want me to come with?"

Michonne shook her head and then made a beeline for the restroom. Thankfully, it was empty. She lifted her shirt to reveal her swollen belly, running her fingers over the taut skin. The baby was so quiet, she had started to worry despite countless reassurances from her Doctor that everything was fine.

But now that she knew they were moving in there, alive and kicking, she was more than relieved.

She was glad.

It was one of the only times she remembered being happy during this entire ordeal. Her pregnancy was wrought with so much bad, from the conception to the general discomfort she felt every day. She'd smiled when she heard the heartbeat and saw the ultrasound pictures, but she'd had yet to experience the actual joy of being pregnant, and chalked it up to having to give the baby up.

It was ironic coming to this realization in a public restroom, a place she'd dreaded since the first pregnancy test showed up positive.

But somehow this moment was potent. The baby had moved. She was growing life inside her. She would be someone's mother, even when she gave them away she'd have the marks, even when they grew up without knowing her face, she'd know theirs. They'd moved inside her once upon a time, and it was both beautiful and terrifying.


	8. Kicker

The holidays rolled around, and with it came Michonne's third trimester.

Too swollen to fit any Halloween costume, she opted to stay at home and hand candy out while watching her very own version of a scary movie: childbirth, uncensored.

"So this isn't freaking you out?"

Michonne shook her head, shoveling another handful of popcorn into her mouth. "If she were pushing out a tentacled creature sprouting fangs, maybe."

Andrea winced again as the woman on screen let out an ear-piercing shriek, another of her contractions rocking her. Between this and what she'd been experiencing the past eight months with Michonne, her decision to hold off on kids was looking better and better each day. "I'm scared and I'm not even the one who's pregnant."

Michonne shrugged. "Our sex-ed class was hard core. They showed us way worse than this," she thought back to those years, which seemed like a lifetime ago. "I think they were trying to stop us from getting pregnant."

Andrea smirked. "Had no effect on you."

Michonne gestured to her bump. "Obviously, I never paid any attention."

Her mom joined them, providing an extra pillow for her daughter to prop on, eyeing her bump with a fondness Michonne couldn't place. "He'll be here soon."

Andrea got up to shovel popcorn out the bowl. "Still can't believe you're having a boy."

Her mom nudged her. "Thought of any names yet?"

Michonne chewed on the inside of her cheek. "I think we should let the new parents decide, yeah?"

"But I know you've thought of some," Andrea prodded. "Don't even lie."

Michonne shrugged. "Maybe I have. Doesn't matter."

Michonne felt it then, the flutter that meant the baby had kicked. "He just kicked me, if you guys wanted a play-by-play." He kicked again, as if obliging the entertainment.

Mrs. Grey placed a hand over her heart. "You used to kick me so hard. Like mother like son. Let me feel."

Michonne nodded, and her mother rested her hand firmly on her belly. "I don't feel anything?"

"Really?"

"Oh! I felt it when you spoke. He's definitely a kicker."

Michonne bit down on her smile, having never thought of it that way. Andrea full on grinned. "He likes your voice."

She shrugged, tugging her shirt back down, but it took more effort to make it seem nonchalant. "Whatever."

They continued to watch the mother onscreen give birth. Michonne kept her mouth shut, but once in a while she would say something, nothing significant, but something loud and long enough, something that would make the baby kick.

And to herself, she would smile every time.

Later, after Andrea had left and everyone in her house was asleep, Michonne lay in bed, restless as she thought of the baby, thoughts every soon-to-be-mother had. What would he look like? Would he have an outie like her? Who's personality would he take after? She selfishly hoped it was hers, but maybe he'd take the best of whatever Mike had. She'd put those thoughts at bay for as long as she could, tucked away any wistful feelings she had.

Her specialist, Nancy, told her that was normal. Every mother felt some form of guilt when they went this route, but they knew this was ultimately the best for their baby.

Michonne didn't.

She wouldn't struggle. Her family was well off enough to take care of them, and if for some reason they weren't, she was entirely capable of working. She was competent – maybe not mother-competent, but she could learn. And she had help. She had her Mom and Dad, and Andrea. Even the twins.

He kicked again.

"You should stop now," Michonne said softly. "There's no one around to show off to."

Kick.

"Maybe you just like me. Makes sense, since I am carrying you and all."

Kick kick.

She could no longer contain her grin, and since there was no one around, she laughed, too.

"It won't always be like this, though," she rubbed soothing circles into her stomach, as if to comfort him. "When you get here, some other very nice people are taking you, and you won't hear my voice again..."

She trailed off, the weight of that registering. Finally, after eight careful months of planning, her resolve was being undone by something so normal. He might've been stretching in there, or he'd shifted in response to the light, but her eyes pricked like he'd spoken to her. It was so simple, so simple. He'd kicked her before, but just the thought of him doing it as a response to her - he had a hold on her, and she would be letting him go.

Everything was ready. The paperwork was done. If she had the baby right then he would be whisked away and put in good hands. And it was only then she realized it wasn't enough. It would never be enough, no matter how much she told herself it would be.

And after realizing that, she felt like she could breath for the first time in eight months.

* * *

1 MONTH LATER

LANDING COUNTY BIRTHING CENTER

ROOM 67

(MOST OF WHICH CONTAINED MICHONNE'S ENDLESS WAILS)

"Give me the epidural, just give it to me, just tell them…" She panted, unable to form words over the intense wave of pain washing her.

Her mother wiped the sweat at her brow. "Doctor said it's too late."

Michonne's chest heaved. "Whose idea was it for me to do this naturally?"

"Uh, yours." Andrea said from the corner of her room. She was pressed into the walls, as if the baby would tear through Michonne's stomach and attack her. "Need anything, by the way?"

Michonne glared at her, knowing she meant well, but not caring in the moment. "Getting this baby out of me would be just great, thanks." She fell back into the pillows. "Where's the Doctor? Tell him I need to start pushing."

"You can't push," the nurse warned. "You aren't dilated enough."

"It's too late to give me the epidural but too early to start pushing? I should shove this monitor up your – oh my God, shit, that hurts."

After four more hours of labor, sweat (from everyone), screaming (from everyone, but particularly Michonne), and tears (everyone again), a bloody, beautiful boy was being put on Michonne's chest. In came a feeling she'd never felt before, bliss, pure and unfettered as she gazed at the baby. Her baby.

Andre.

His cries turned to gurgles and murmurs against Michonne's bare chest. She finally understood why mother's called their alien-looking newborns beautiful. Because he was beautiful, from the fine hair on his head, to his squished little face. She felt her chest cave in at the thought of this beauty, this unimaginable warmth being taken away, never to be felt or seen again.

No, she wouldn't let this light snuff out.

"Andre," she whispered, for just the two of them. "I'm gonna be a good Mom."

* * *

She was not going to be a good Mom.

Two in the morning rolled around and Michonne was balancing a crying Andre in her arms, fighting her own tears as he wailed. She'd fed him, changed his diaper, fed him more – and still couldn't figure out what the problem was.

She glanced down the hall, hoping everyone could sleep through this. The past two weeks had been an adjustment, between her healing, and Andre's wacky sleep schedule, and it was hard on everyone. She sat down on her bed with Andre in her arms, still crying. "What is the problem?"

"Someone sounds fussy," her father entered the room chuckling. "Is it Mommy or baby?"

Michonne blew air out of her mouth. "Bout' to be both."

He chuckled again as he eased himself beside her, and they both gazed at Andre. It was too early to tell what he looked like, but Michonne hoped he was an exact copy of her, even though it wasn't technically possible.

"You were fussy when you were a baby, too." Her father said quietly. He was remembering nights like this with Michonne, when she would cry and he would sing her a lullaby, the same one he'd sing when she was in her mother's womb, and she'd hush instantly.

"I'm starting to think you and Mom are just saying that to make me feel less shitty."

"Nah, it's true. You had colic. And you always wanted to be held. We were constantly on edge with you."

Michonne laughed shakily, the first tear slipping out of her eye.

"Ain't no right way to be a parent. You try and you learn. I'm still learning, and my baby just had a baby."

She smiled, and leaned herself against her Dad as she'd done many times before, except this time she had someone of her own who would need to lean on her.

As they watched, Andre coughed. Carefully, Michonne bought him up to her shoulder, lightly hitting his back. She heard the sound, and then felt something sticky and wet on her shoulder.

"There you go," her father kissed the top of Andre's head. "He just needed to vomit. Sometimes it's just vomit."

* * *

 _Rick,_

 _I don't know how to tell you this. This is the nineteenth time I've written this letter._

 _I need to stay here. I know Harvard is the dream, and it has been for a long time, but this is where I need to be. I just wish I'd realized it sooner instead of getting worked up to this idea, before getting you worked up to the idea. I want to be here - need to be here. For myself, and for everyone else._

 _I have things to tell you. Important things, crazy things. Things you'll maybe hate me for._

 _Love always, M._


	9. Tis' the Season for Truths

"You can try to make it funny. Like, put Andre in a box and have him open it and ta-da! A baby!"

"One, I'm not putting my newborn son in a box for comedic effect. Two, I doubt he'll be in a laughing mood."

"But look at this little face," Andrea held Andre up, half-asleep. "How could anyone be mad at this little face?"

"It's not his face he'll be mad at, it's mine." Michonne took Andre from her and cradled him in her arms. He was only two-and-a-half weeks old, but his cheeks were filling out nicely from all the milk. "What to do, what to do."

Andrea placed a comforting hand on Michonne's arm. "Rick will forgive you. From what I've seen so far, he loves you. He'll be mad but, love conquers all and all that corny stuff."

Michonne smiled gratefully, even though her reassurance did fall a little flat at the end. "Thanks. And thank you for being there for me throughout this whole thing. I know I'm not the easiest person to deal with…"

"No big deal. We're both a mess. But now you're stuck with me because you made me his godmother."

"Oh, boy. Am I gonna regret that?"

Andrea grinned sweetly. "Not at all. And it was so awesome of you to name my godson after me."

Michonne rolled her eyes, having half the mind to take Andrea's godmother position if she kept this argument up. "For the last time, I did not name him after you. I've always liked the name _Andre_ , and you just happen to come along with the name _Andrea._ "

"Sure, Michonne. It's not because you love me or anything. Whatever gets you to sleep at night."

* * *

Later the next day, Michonne decided to take her and Andre to the nearest plaza for some shopping and fresh air. She was sure to be extra careful since it was his first official outing, but Andre was safe, tucked adorably in a baby carrier she'd found in the mountain of gifts she'd received.

Everything was fine for the first hour or so. People would stop to admire or coo at Andre, and sometimes ask her everything from the invasive ("Are you breastfeeding? You look like it!") to the slightly racist ("Is the father in your life")? Which, he wasn't, but it was still rude to ask.

But Michonne couldn't be mad. It was a nice day, Christmas decorations adorned the streets, and most importantly, she had her baby with her. As long as she focused on that, and avoided any nagging thoughts of Rick, she would be –

"Michonne? Michonne Grey, is that you?"

Michonne froze, wishing she'd heard differently, but that voice was unmistakable.

Jessie Anderson stood a few feet away, clad in snug jeans, suede boots, and a mid-drift baring jacket despite the chilly weather, which did good to show her flat stomach and belly button ring.

Jessie rested her hand on her hip as Michonne contemplated making a run for it. "It is you. Unbelievable."

"Hey, Jessie," Michonne smiled, doing her best to bring little attention to the lump that was obviously a baby. "W-what are you doing here?"

"Work in L.A is slow. Nearly every audition I walk into, there are ten other blondes looking at me like I'm the bitchy blonde getting the part. It's seriously so annoying." She rolled her eyes. "Anyways, since I'm not booked I decided to come back for Christmas."

She looked Michonne up and down, her eyes finally widening when she noticed. "Is that a baby?"

"What? This?"

Her blue eyes nearly bulged out of her head. "Oh my God, it is. It's yours? Is that why you aren't at Harvard with Rick?"

Jessie stepped closer, and Michonne tensed. She half-smiled at Andre before turning mischievous eyes to Michonne. "So, who's the Dad?"

"You know what Jessie, I have to go. Right now."

She didn't wait for Jessie's reply, leaving behind a string of curses as she walked as fast as she could without disturbing Andre. Behind her, she heard Jessie's half-hearted goodbye.

* * *

Rick got the call late. He had just finished brushing his teeth and was about to jump into bed with a Dostoevsky novel when his phone buzzed gently beneath his pillow.

Which was strange, since no one usually called him at this time except his parents when the time-zone was different, but they'd called him earlier so that couldn't be it. His heart sped up when he thought it could be Michonne. Maybe she would surprise him, make his dreams come true by telling him she was on the other side of the door.

But the number on the caller I.D was unfamiliar. "Hello?"

Jessie's voice flooded his ear, jarring him for a second. "Hey, you. Were you asleep?"

"No, no," he swung his legs over the bed and ran a hand over his face. "Just…wasn't expecting to hear from you. You change your number again?"

"Yeah," Jessie sighed on the other line. "I'm preparing myself for the life of a superstar. Have to change my number every three weeks or so."

Rick blinked. "That's why you called?"

"No, no," she said, mimicking him from earlier. "I just wanted to let you know I'm in Atlanta for Christmas."

He smiled. "That's good, Jess. I bet everyone's glad to see you." He was half-tempted to ask her to go check on Michonne for him.

"Oh, they are but…I really just wanna see you."

Rick laid back in bed, knowing this would be a hell of a phone call to get through. She was using the sultry voice she used right before they would have sex. "Lucky for you, I'll be down in a few days."

She exhaled. "I'm glad. It's so weird how everything's changed. Glenn and Maggie are married, Michonne has a baby, Hershel's is so different – "

"Scuse' me?"

"Huh?"

Rick got back up slowly, feeling like he was in a trance. "Say what you just said now. About Michonne."

"She…has a baby?" Jessie said confusedly. "I saw her today, at the plaza, carrying a baby."

His mouth went dry. "Her baby? You're sure it's her baby?"

"You can't fake that. As an actress, I'd know."

Rick held the phone away from him, swallowing hard. "I have to go, Jessie."

"Ok," she sounded defeated. "Bye, then."

He clicked end call, threw his phone back on his pillow, and ran his fingers through his hair. Michonne. Michonne had a baby. Michonne had a baby, and so Michonne had been pregnant this entire time, and hadn't told him. In all their phone calls, letters, texts all their promises to one another – apparently void on her part – she hadn't even given him a fucking hint.

He picked up his phone again, his finger hovering over the call button, but he couldn't. He didn't want to have another half-assed phone conversation with her. No, he needed to see this for himself.

He pulled a shirt over his head, and nearly ripped off the door handle to his door before shutting it and storming across the hallway. He banged hard on Rudy's door, the sound of hard rock metal floating out of it. A girl answered, slinking against the door. "Hello, handsome. How can I help you?"

Rick worked his jaw, sincerely not in the mood. "Rudy here?"

"He is."

He cocked his head to the side. "You gonna let me in?"

She shrugged. "Only because you're really hot."

That was good enough for him. Rick brushed past her, finding Rudy where he always was; sunk into a bean bag, high off of whatever it was he was smoking those days. Rick generally never cared for him, but he'd snuck Shane a few things, and so he could only hope his illegal dealings extended to what Rick needed.

"Slicky dick Rick," Rudy teased behind squinted eyes. "You finally caving? What'll it be?"

"Plane ticket. For Atlanta, tomorrow."

* * *

Rick felt like he was being grossly played. Like any second a camera crew would appear and this would all be revealed as some twisted, elaborate prank.

He was working it out piece by piece, trying to be objective about it, but it all came down to one thing: She'd lied to him.

It was a jarring realization to come to; he and Michonne had next to no secrets between them, and if they ever even thought to lie, they'd be able to read it off each other in a matter of seconds.

Rudy – by some miracle, especially during Christmas – managed to get Rick the ticket for a grand total of $200, taken directly out of his savings account. Some part of him told him he would sorely regret that later, but he wasn't thinking straight. All he knew was that he had to be in front of Michonne, he had to hear it from her lips, had to see the baby for himself.

He worked most of it out on the plane. The baby was Mike's. Michonne had taken the morning after pill, sure, but that was only ninety-nine percent effective. And then – he didn't know. He'd been so wrapped up in Jessie, in making plans for Harvard, he hadn't even noticed the changes that were undoubtedly there.

All of the pieces were falling into place. Why she shied around the topic of coming to Harvard. Why she deflected – always, _always_ swiveled the conversation back to him. Her clipped answers. And he'd eaten it all up, word for word, empty promise after empty promise, hoping she would come while she knew she never would.

Maybe it was partially his fault. Michonne was just fine with staying in Georgia, until he convinced her Harvard was the best choice. In retrospect, Harvard with Michonne was more for him than it was for her, even if he knew it was the best choice for her. And then he'd left her dry, too absorbed with himself to notice what she was going through.

For the remainder of the flight he oscillated from blaming himself, blaming Michonne, blaming the both of them. He thought of what he'd say when he first saw her, or what she would say. He could've just called her when he landed, and he did scroll past her name a few times, but the words were scrambled when he grasped for what he would say.

In the end, he would just need to sit back, grit his teeth, and wait for the shit to hit the fan.

* * *

Michonne had been minutes into some bad reality show when she heard a knock on the door.

After a stressful morning with Andre, she'd finally managed to put him down for a nap, and was itching for a few peaceful minutes, so not only was it unexpected, but inconvenient.

She stumbled to the door, tripping on toys (the twins took it upon themselves to 'break Andre's toys in for him until he's old' enough). "Who is it?"

"Rick."

Michonne took a step back, shaking her head. No, the sleep deprivation was finally getting to her, that was it. She had an entire week before Rick came from break.

Her heart felt like it wanted to leap out of her throat when she unlatched the door, opening it a crack. It was Rick, looking at her with that squint of his. "You mind?"

"Rick," Her voice sounded gross and sad and desperate and it cracked in strange places, but she didn't care. "You're here."

He didn't smile like she wanted him to. Not even a hint. A muscle feathered in his jaw, but his baby blues were lined with silver. "Michonne."

The way he said her name, like she'd hurt him so bad – and she had. She took another deep breath and opened the door wide. "Come in."

She didn't walk with him, leaving him to shut the door as he took in the familiar setting of his second home, where he'd made so many memories with the girl who now had her back to him, wringing her hands. There was definitely evidence of a baby – diapers and wipes piled to the ceiling where he and Michonne used to measure their height, a babies bassinet, more bottles than one baby could possibly need.

They ended up in the kitchen, Michonne pressed into the sink, and Rick on the wall opposite to her, like there was a gaping hole between them and if either of them crossed a line they'd get swallowed in.

"So I guess Jessie told you." she said, skipping over the preamble.

He nodded. "She did, last night."

Michonne bit the inside of her cheek, nodding.

"Crappy way to find out, if you ask me."

"I swear I was going to tell you, Rick," she looked him straight in the eye, her own pricking. "You were the first person I wanted to tell."

He didn't say anything.

"I wrote you so many letters that never got sent, the texts saved in my drafts, I…"

"How could you keep something like this from me?" His voice was quiet, a note of helplessness, a hint of anger.

"Because I knew you'd stay," she said finally. "And then you'd be behind."

"How could you even think like that? You get pregnant, and instead of telling me, you try to protect me? Like I'm the one who needs savin'?"

"I couldn't have us both here. Your future, _everything_ , it was in Boston, and I – I didn't know what to do."

"So you spend months feeding me lies because you're so noble?"

She pushed off the sink. "I was protecting you. I don't care how you twist it, I was."

He leaned his forearms on one of the chairs and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Michonne, stop it."

"Tell me you wouldn't have stayed," she challenged. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you wouldn't have stayed here if I told you."

He looked at her, tears staining her cheeks, her eyes wide and desperate.

"Exactly," she said in a near-whisper. "You can't."

"So what if I stayed for a while? You're my best friend, of course I wouldn't wanna abandon you while you were pregnant, for Christ's sake."

"We needed boundaries, Rick."

He half-scoffed. "Boundaries."

"You've always been there for me, and I love you for that." She smiled for the first time, and it turned his heart over and made him want to forget the whole thing and just run to her. "But at one point, it was getting to be too much. I was going to Harvard because I wanted to be with you more than I wanted to go for myself."

"You should've told me. I shouldn't have – "

"Don't blame yourself. I know you just wanted the best for me."

"Or I'm just as guilty," he shook his head, sniffing. "I was so wrapped up in this idea of the two of us taking on the world together, couldn't see right."

She bit her lip, thinking how she'd almost written the same thing in one of the twenty-something letters she never sent. "My fault. In all your letters and calls, you still spoke to me like I was Michonne, the girl on her way to Harvard, and not Michonne, the pregnant girl who had such a bright future but screwed it up. I was…holding on to that, through you, I think. And I'm sorry."

He nodded. All of the tension in his chest was dissipating, the more he understood, the more he looked at her. And it was then he realized they were both standing there in that moment, the angst up to the ceiling, because they loved each other so much.

He didn't know who walked towards the other first, only that when he finally wrapped his arms around her it felt right, and familiar, and like coming home. She'd put on a bit of weight, but she fit just right in his arms. She smelled like Michonne – like her favorite peppermint shampoo and that perfume her Dad had given her, with a hint of baby. He held her head and buried his face in her neck, whispering that he was sorry over and over, and she did the same, except hers were punctured with sobs.

Finally they pulled away, laughing at the complete messes they were. Michonne laced her fingers through Rick's. "There's someone I want you to meet."

"He's been sleeping most of the day, after keeping me up most of the night, of course."

Rick chuckled, still marveling at the tiny human sound asleep in his arms. "He'll start sleepin' during the day when he's good and ready. That's Dr. Grimes speaking, by the way."

Michonne smiled. Dr. Grimes. One day she hoped to be Grey, Attorney At Law.

"He's beautiful, Chonne." Rick murmured. Andre's tiny hand was clasping his index finger, and the whole scene was too adorable and made Michonne feel warm and want to snap a million photos. "Where's Mike?"

"Still in Florida, last I heard. I called him a dozen times, left him messages, but…" she trailed off, not needing to say more.

Rick smiled apologetically.

"I could technically still hit his ass with some child support, but I'm doing good on my own so far, so I'll keep that card up my sleeve for later. Point is: we don't need him. I've got Mom and Dad, Andrea, the twins. Me and my baby are gonna be just fine."

Rick understood what Jessie meant when she said motherhood couldn't be faked. The way Michonne gazed at Andre, like he was her sun and stars, said everything.

"And me," he said quietly. "You have me."

"Always." She said without hesitation.

Andre woke up a little bit after. Michonne fed him (much to Rick's chagrin, though she was modest and he tried to be a doctor about it), burped him, and then let Rick hold him again. He walked up and down the room, rocking him gently and speaking to him in soft murmurs.

"He likes you," Michonne observed. "I talk to him about you a lot, even when I was pregnant."

"Really? What'd you tell him?"

"Just all about the stupid shit we used to pull – while warning him not to do the same thing, like a good Mom."

"That's right," Rick told Andre. "Your Mom was always wanting us to do somethin' reckless, and I was always the one willing to talk some sense into her."

Michonne smacked him with Andre's bib. "Don't feed my son lies."

"I don't know, he's lookin' pretty convinced."

She laughed again, feeling eighteen again with him, and somehow much, much older with Andre in the mix. She had imagined Rick's return to go down in a lot of ways – most of them nightmarish, and full of tears and endings. And even though thing's weren't completely patched up between them, she liked this version.

If the look in Rick's eyes was anything to go by, he like it, too.


	10. Old Endings, New Beginnings

When Michonne blinked her eyes open, it took her a while to orient herself to her surroundings. She wasn't in the familiar setting of her bedroom, but the lonely guest room at the end of the Grimes hallway was familiar enough not to be startling. She'd spent a good chunk of her childhood there, after all.

Still, there was a lingering feeling of anxiety, probably because this was the first morning in three weeks she'd woken without Andre. He was probably safe and sound across the street with her family, but the separation anxiety was real.

Quietly, she slipped out of bed, grabbed her toiletries, and headed for the bathroom in the hall. Just as she did, a familiar blonde head poked out of Rick's door.

Jessie, disheveled and bleary-eyed, barefoot and sporting nothing but Rick's pajama shirt, which, awkwardly enough, Michonne wore the matching pajama bottoms for. There was a stunned moment as Michonne pieced together exactly why Jessie was there, and when she did, she wanted to slip back into the guest room and go back to sleep.

"Michonne," Jessie smiled groggily. If Michonne didn't know better she'd think she'd just come back from a photoshoot than waking up. "You're still here? I thought you left after the party?"

Michonne smiled half-heartedly. "I was helping Ruth with the clean-up, and I was so tired after, she and Roy said I should crash upstairs till' morning."

Jessie nodded, but she didn't need to explain why she was there. Her morning-after-sex hair( which still looked better than normal morning-after-sex hair), lack of bottoms, and Rick's snores floating from the room behind her said more than enough. "Well, I have to catch a flight, but I'll let you go first. I'm sure you're dying to get back to your baby."

More like dying to get away from you, but that works to.

"I'm sorry, by the way," Jessie cleared her throat. "For telling Rick before you. I honestly thought he knew, Michonne."

"Yeah, you told me last night, remember? When you drank most of the eggnog."

"Oh, God," she placed a hand over her heart, eyes bulging. "Did I say anything else?"

"Yeah, Jessie? I really have to go back home to see Andre. We'll talk later?"

"But – "

"Great." Michonne shut the bathroom door, and then let her head fall forward against it.

She didn't know what she'd expected. Jessie was back in town, and so was Rick, so sex between the two was probably inevitable. She wasn't sure how much Rick was getting in Boston, or any at all, and Jessie never could keep her hands off of him. It was only natural they sleep together.

But she didn't know why it bothered her so much. It wasn't even about the sex, but the thought of the two of them getting back together made her stomach want to throw up last night's Christmas ham, which would be a shame because she helped Ruth make it.

No, that wouldn't happen, she reassured herself. Rick would go back to Boston and Jessie to Los Angeles and neither of them would want to even entertain a long-distance relationship. So much of their connection was physical, and phone sex could only do so much for so little time.

Michonne pinched the bridge of her nose, a laugh bubbling up her chest. Because she was jealous. She was irrationally jealous, and trying to convince herself Rick was hers, when she had no claim on him to begin with. It was different than anything she'd ever felt before in regards to him, and it made her nervous because…it was Rick.

She didn't allow herself any more time to broach that, her insistence to get the hell out of that house and see her baby stronger. Ten minutes later she was dashing across the street, knocking on her own door because she'd left her keys inside. The curtains rustled and Aneni answered the door, the toy doll Michonne had gotten her for Christmas clutched in her arms. "That white girl is upstairs with Andre."

" _Andrea_ ," Michonne corrected, rolling her eyes as she shut the door behind her. "Mom and Pop?"

"Still sleeping." The twins said in unison.

Michonne quietly went up the stairs. Andrea was indeed with Andre, laying on her side and scrolling through her phone while he slept soundly beside her.

"Where were you?" she whispered. "I called you like ten times."

"My bad, phone died." Michonne lifted Andre to her. He twitched and made a little sound, but didn't wake up. Carefully, she went over to his bassinet and laid him there. "I was sleeping with," she shook her head. " _At_ Rick's."

Andrea's eyes glimmered mischievously ignoring the correction like Michonne knew she would. "Oh, so you finally did _that_."

Michonne hit her with one of the many pillows strewn on the bed, and then belly-flopped into bed herself. "I did not sleep with him. I don't think I'm in any condition to be having sex right now, period. Especially not with Rick."

Andrea snorted. "Suit yourself. I'd hit that half-asleep, with the flu, a broken arm…"

Michonne nudged her. "Then why didn't you make a move last night at the party?"

Andrea moved her hair out of her face and looked up at the ceiling. "If I'm being honest, he's not my type."

"What?" Michonne lifted herself a little, feeling second hand offense on behalf of Rick.

"Don't get me wrong, he's good-looking. And he's sweet. But he's just…not my type."

"I don't know why I asked. You have terrible taste in guys. Remember that one guy that wore a fake eye patch and wanted you to call him the Governor or some shit?"

She smacked Michonne's arm lightly, while the other girl giggled. "That was only a sex thing! The eyepatch thing, I can't make a case for. The point _is,_ Rick's not my type. He's yours."

Michonne bit her lip. Normally she would refute that, but this time she let the possibility hover. "You think so?"

Andrea was surprised at the tad bit of hopefulness she detected in Michonne's voice. "Yeah. I was watching you two last night and it was kinda like…magic. The way you two bounced off of each other, finished each other's sentences sometimes. I was kinda jealous, honestly. I have to repeat myself to you four, five times sometimes, but you two were just seamless."

That wasn't news. She and Rick had been that way for as long as she could remember.

"He actually couldn't keep his eyes off you, now that I'm looking back at it."

Michonne turned her head, one of her locs falling into her face. "Ok, now you're reachin' for the stars."

"I'm not! I swear I caught him looking at your ass a couple times. Plus your lactating tits were pushed up so high in that dress, can you blame the guy?"

Michonne shook her head, twirling one of her locs around her finger. "He slept with Jessie."

It was Andrea's turn to lean up on her arm. "He did?"

"I saw her coming out of his room this morning, hair all fucked up, wearing his shirt."

Andrea lay back down. "That was predictable. Blondie was all over him last night."

"Andrea, you're blonde. Your whole family's blond."

"Yeah, but I can say that because I'm not even sure Jessie's an authentic blonde…"

They talked a little more, and then Andre woke up for a feeding, which seemed to wake the entire house up. Mrs. Grey offered to make breakfast for Andrea, but her parents called and she'd had to return home because apparently her Christmas tree had caught on fire.

Michonne was rocking Andre back to sleep, going around her dining room in circles, when Rick's familiar knock sounded on her door.

"Jess told me you were there this morning," he said by way of greeting. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Michonne shrugged. "You were asleep. Didn't want to wake you."

He was taken back by her clipped answer. They'd had such a good time last night, he'd almost forgotten things were still a little strained between them. "Well, I was kinda hopin' to take you out, if you were up for it."

She hated the way her stomach fluttered in that moment. "Where to?"

He grinned in that way of his, but the effect was a tingling down her spine. "That's for me to know, and you to find out."

He knew she couldn't resist a challenge, and by way of her smile, she let him know she was up for it.

Hours later, they were in the warmness of Carol's Cabin, one of Michonne's favorite restaurant's. Christmas decorations still hung up, and music floated out from somewhere. The place was sparsely populated, which Rick liked.

He helped her out of her coat and shrugged out of his. Something was different between them. It could've been that they were still in strange territory because of the whole I-didn't-tell-you-I-was pregnant thing, but that tension and the one he felt then were stark.

Someone came to take their drink and deliver menu's. Michonne rolled her shoulders, peeking at him over hers. "Five bucks says I know what you're ordering."

He grunted, a smile dangling on the corner of his lips. "Now you know that ain't fair."

"Harvard didn't change your palette? You don't want caviar or anything?"

"Northern food is…not my thang. I have half the mind to bring Mom's recipe book over there and teach them a thang or two bout' how we like to get down."

She laughed. "Can you imagine? They're eating croutons or whatever and here you come with some fried chicken."

"Beats subsisting on ramen noodles. Freshman fifteen is real, Chonne. I gained fifteen over there, and probably another twenty bein' back here."

"You look good."

She should have said it casually, but the timid way she spoke made Rick put his menu down, giving up on any pretense of choosing something different to order.

"I mean you don't look like you've gained anything much," she said quickly. "You look…good."

Well she wasn't wrong. Rick looked even better than the photos he sent, better than the last time she'd seen him, when he still had some baby fat. He looked like he was growing up to be one of those men who got sexier the older they grew. Which wouldn't help her, if she wanted to keep this friendship thing going.

Rick cleared his throat, scratching behind his ear. "Y-you look good too."

Michonne had always looked good, but the baby weight she'd put on wasn't bad on the eyes. Rick's eyes specifically. He hadn't noticed it before, but the dress she'd worn to his parent's post-Christmas dinner last night made sure he knew. And now, he had to remind himself her breasts were only bigger for purely biological reasons so he wouldn't ogle them. Which didn't work last night and certainly wasn't working that night.

As if to rescue them, a waiter returned to take their order. Michonne ordered for both of them, smirking at Rick's eyebrow tilt when she flawlessly rattled off exactly what he wanted.

"Now what if I wanted somethin' else?"

She winked and tapped her temple. "Then I woulda known."

Despite himself, he laughed. "You know, I don't have to leave tomorrow."

Michonne narrowed her eyes at him, swirling her drink with her straw. "Oh?"

He nodded, the smile never leaving his face. "I can stay a couple more days."

For her. For his family and hers, and their friends, too, but for _her_. Michonne felt her heart turn over. "You know how hard it'll be to book a flight."

She was right. Of course she was. But he pressed on just to tease her, even knowing. "But there's this thing I wanted to cook for you that I found in Mom's recipe book. It's chili and mac and cheese, _togethur_. C'mon."

The way he said come on made her cover her mouth to hide her boisterous laugh, and soon they were back to being themselves. The dinner was fine, but it wasn't what they paid attention to. They were each one enraptured by the other, both of them realizing they wouldn't get something like this for a while. And so Michonne tucked her budding, confusing feelings away so she could enjoy that for what it was.

Soon they were walking slowly, purposefully back to Rick's car. "Thanks for this. I needed a night out. Reminds me that I'm still me – just the Mom version."

"No problem," He glanced at the side of her face. "What's next for you?"

Michonne blew air out of her mouth, and it billowed out in front of her in the bitter cold. "Go to school. Take care of myself and Andre. Take it step by step."

He nodded, taking her hand for comfort. Michonne didn't wear easy. It would take a lot more to deter her from what she wanted. He slipped his hands into hers and squeezed. "I'm glad."

* * *

They were there again. Two dots in a bustling airports. The same two people, but with less secrets that bridged them together.

Well, almost.

Michonne felt Rick's hand press into her lower back as he held her to him, letting the embrace say everything they needed. That they loved each other and no amount of distance or time would ever hinder that.

She was the first to break away, feeling a bout of déjà vu, even when she had nothing to hide. "You know the drill. Call me, text, write."

He nodded. "Promise."

"And I promise to tell you if I get knocked up again."

He laughed. "Ok."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Good."

They lingered for a few moments, drinking each other in, and then Rick was turning away, taking pieces of her with him, and she of him, but knowing what they did now, it all felt pretty close to being ok.

* * *

FOUR DAYS LATER

A NEW YEAR'S EVE PARTY

(MOST OF WHICH RICK WAS TRYING AND FAILING TO ENJOY)

Rick took another swig of his beer. He wasn't much for drinking, beer especially, but it was New Year's Eve and he needed something to numb his growing anxiety. He'd had it his whole life and it cropped up in opportune moments, but he especially didn't want to feel it on New Year's Eve of all times.

Shane was at the bar, hollering up a storm and being generally embarrassing. There was approximately forty minutes till' the ball dropped and everyone was buzzing. Not for the first time that day, Rick wondered what Michonne was doing. They'd spent ever New Years together since they were twelve, so not celebrating it with her felt weird. She'd sent him a text earlier that day wishing him a Happy New Year, along with an adorable picture of Andre. He made a mental note to call her later that night.

"Excuse me sir, do you happen to be in the single department?"

Rick turned to find a pale-skinned guy with a mullet blinking at him. "I'm sorry?"

"Do you have a partner, is what I mean."

Rick darted his eyes around, wondering if this was a practical joke orchestrated by Shane. "I wanna say no, cause' you're lookin' pretty hopeful there buddy."

The guy shook his head, his face still expressionless. "I am not a homosexual. I thoroughly enjoy the female form. No sir, I am not, though if I was I would be into you, seeing as you have some nice genes."

Rick took another sip of his beer. "I see."

"It's just that my cousin likes you, and sent me over here to see if you'd like to buy her a drink."

Rick raised his eyebrows, and then glanced around the tables. "Which one's your cousin?"

He pointed out a pretty dark-haired girl sitting at a table across from them, chatting with her friends. Rick recognized her from lecture halls. "Lori is your cousin?"

"She is the swan in a family full of ducklings."

Rick looked back at him. "I'm Rick, by the way."

"Eugene Porter."

"Eugene," Rick said, running her finger along the tip of his bottle. "Tell Lori I said come on over here."

Within ten minutes Lori came over to where he was, and they exchanged small talk. She was pretty and nice, and although Rick was slightly buzzed, he liked her.

"Uh oh," Lori tucked her hair behind her ears. "It's the countdown."

The entire restaurant counted in sync, Shane's booming voice rising above the others. When it was done, he found Lori's lips on his, her strawberry lip gloss mingling with his beer. She pulled away just as quickly, shaking her head. "Sorry, I just sort of…"

"No," he tilted her chin up so that he could see her blushing face. "It's…it's ok. It really is."

She smiled, and he pulled her face towards his, but part of him – some distant, vague part – thought that if he'd stayed in Atlanta a little longer, he would have gotten to ring in the New Year with Michonne – and maybe seal it with a kiss.


	11. Are You my Dad?

FIVE YEARS LATER

(MOST OF WHICH FLEW BY)

Michonne was having a nightmare.

She knew because the skies were ominous dark clouds swirling in the sky, and panic was bubbling up her throat like vomit. In the dream she strained against her restraint's – rope's cinching her wrists together, tape plastering her mouth shut.

But then the nightmare confused her, because Rick was there. He looked like a walking dream, cut straight out of a daydream and pasted into a nightmare. But he didn't seem to notice her. In fact, he seemed to be looking past her, at an approaching figure.

Michonne followed his line of sight. She recognized the back of Lori's head from photos and videos, but her delicate face wasn't the same. It was withered and grotesque and when she smiled, fangs popped out where teeth should've been. Rick didn't notice this, walking straight past Michonne into Lori's waiting arms. Michonne screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

"Mommy! Mommy wake up, it's the first day of school, wake up!"

Michonne shot up, hitting her head on her headboard in her haste. She went to lift her arms but found that she couldn't – one of her hands were still handcuffed to the bed.

"First day of school!" Andre got off her bed and began dancing around the room. "First day of school!"

Michonne smiled as she watched him. He'd been telling everyone and their mother he'd be starting school for the past two weeks, so his excitement was palpable. She would've loved to join him in his revelry, but she was tied up – in more ways than one. "Baby, where's Devon?"

"Right here," Devon poked his head into the door and then let himself into the room. "I was just talking to someone on the phone. Didn't want to wake you."

Michonne darted her eyes to the handcuffs, silently demanding him to release her without using words. He leaned over her and unlocked the cuffs, and then her wrists could breathe again. God, she agreed to some questionable things when she was horny.

She propped herself up. "Peanut, why don't you go pick out your cereal and wait for me, yeah?"

Andre wasn't listening. He wasn't even looking at her, studying Devon curiously. "Are you my Dad?"

The question caught both of them by surprise. Devon massaged the back of his head, sending Michonne a panicked look.

"No, Andre," Michonne said hastily. "Devon is just a nice man who knows Mommy, remember?"

It wasn't the first time she'd explained Devon's presence to him, but Andre still seemed perplexed, before finally he shrugged and dashed off to the kitchen.

Michonne let out a sharp exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Sorry about that."

Devon laughed nervously. "No problem. Hey, it was bound to happen, right?"

Michonne avoided his gaze. He was never supposed to meet Andre in the first place, something she'd been intent on when they first started hooking up, but had now fucked up.

"So when can I see you again?" He asked, flashing her a lazy smile as he pulled his jeans on.

"Um, tonight's game night with Andre, so maybe tomorrow night? Same time?"

His smile faltered. "No, I mean when can I see you. As in not for sex."

Michonne wanted to disappear into the bed.

Devon picked his shirt off from the bed. "We've been doing this thing for a month now, and I still don't know who you are. I wanna know you, Michonne. I know exactly where to kiss you to make you squirm, but I don't know your favorite color. That's messed up."

"That's what hooking up is. That's how I'd like to keep it."

He blinked, offended now. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Asked for emotional involvement when you knew what this was from the start. Don't get me wrong, you're a great guy but…I'm not looking for a relationship."

"I see," he swallowed roughly, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing. "You're one of those I-don't-need-a-man independent types, huh?"

"You should go."

"What's your son gonna think when he sees me coming out of your room every morning, and nothing else? Shit, little dude already thinks I'm his Dad. You don't think that's gonna fuck up his perception of you? His perception of what a relationship looks like?"

Michonne was completely taken off guard, but she'd be damned if he thought he could just spring this on her and patronize her at the same time.

"Ok, let's stop right fucking there. You know what? It's not my fault you have feelings for me, and I don't. I told you from the start that I only wanted to fuck. Sort that shit out with yourself, and leave me out of it."

A muscle feathered in his jaw, but he didn't say anything.

Michonne enunciated her next words very carefully, as if she were speaking to a child, but she didn't even have to do this with Andre. "But don't you _ever_ fix your mouth to talk about the way I am raising my son. Let's make that explicit."

"Whatever, Michonne."

"Good." She felt hot now, first the nightmare and now this. Now take your ass out my apartment and forget my number."

When Devon finally left (after slamming drawers and muttering to himself) Michonne spent the morning helping Andre get ready for school, or more accurately, trying to get him to stay still while she got him ready. She had time to entertain his excitement, though. It was one of the rare days she was off, because she wanted the whole day with him.

"Now remember," Michonne told him while they walked the distance from their apartment to the Academy a short distance away. "Always be nice. Remember please and thank you. Listen to the teacher and – "

"Follow the rules," he finished for her with a groan, having gone through these rules a dozen times before. "I know, Mama."

Michonne brushed her hand over his head. "Is Mommy being a nuisance?"

He thought for a moment before deciding. "Yeah. But it's ok Mommy, I still love you."

He just didn't know how much those three words warmed up her heart. Andre was such a sappy kid, he told her he loved her all the time, but always in the moments she needed to hear it most. She remembered once, when she'd come home after a particularly brutal shift and research paper's up to her neck. She'd climbed into bed on the verge of tears, only holding them in because Andre slept beside her. He'd rolled over, half asleep, and mumbled that he loved her while his little arm dangled off the bed, and it had been enough, more than enough, to remind her why she kept going.

When they reached the school, Andre was practically pulling her. They reached the classroom, and Mrs. Monroe waved at them from the desks, speaking animatedly with Maggie and Glenn. Little Hershel held on to his mother's leg for dear life.

"This is it," Michonne lowered herself so that she was eye-level with Andre. "You sure you still wanna do this? We still have time to make a run for it."

Andre giggled. "You're so silly."

Michonne blinked back tears. How was it that her baby was starting school already? Where had the time gone? She could have sworn that just yesterday she was taking him home from the hospital, looking like a burrito wrapped in blankets. Now the burrito spoke, and walked, and went to school.

He wrapped his little arms around her neck. "Bye, Mama."

"Bye," she peppered his face with kisses before he could protest. "Love you."

He dashed into the classroom, greeted by Mrs. Monroe, who they'd met during orientation. Michonne waved, but Andre didn't see her. Walking through the halls back outside, she was glad to see she wasn't the only parent crying.

When she returned to her apartment, Andrea was waiting on the steps. "I missed it?"

Michonne smiled flatly.

"Crap," Andrea groaned, getting up so that Michonne could lock the door. "My stupid alarm clock didn't wake me. Oh well, there's always tomorrow. And next year."

Michonne silently cooked them breakfast while Andrea babbled about work and her parents and whatever else bugged her at the moment.

"Mich, are you even listening?"

"Hmm," Michonne looked up from her eggs, which she wasn't even eating. "Yeah, something about how Amy stole your earrings."

"Are you ok? You look kind of upset."

Michonne set her fork down, knowing there was no point avoiding it because Andrea would find out anyways. "Devon and I broke up."

Andrea looked bewildered. "Broke up implies you were in a relationship to begin with."

"I know we weren't together, but he wanted more, and I told him I didn't want to. And then he insinuated that I was being a bad Mom, and I basically told him to fuck off."

Andrea ripped off a piece of bacon. "Men are a waste of time, Michonne. Do like me and invest in a quality vibrator."

"And I don't know why, but it bothers me. He's acting like I'm some sort of robot incapable of romantic love."

"You are."

"Ok, who's side are you on?"

"I'm just being honest," Andrea said, a bit of egg dangling from her mouth. "Your whole life is work, and school, and Andre – which isn't a bad thing! But you treat relationships like the plague."

Michonne propped her hand in her cheek, frowning. "I just…don't want to waste my time."

"You're twenty-four, Michonne. No one is asking you to get married by next week. Just…date around."

"But men are so…men."

"Well," she shrugged. "They can't all be Rick Grimes."

* * *

"You're leaving again?"

Rick looked up from his phone. "Yeah, turns out class isn't cancelled today, so I'm heading out."

"Oh," Lori said, buttoning her shirt. "I was hoping we could spend the day together, since I barely see you."

She meant it as a joke, but by tone of voice, Rick knew it was a slight jab, which he took in stride. "We'll have other days, Lori."

"Will we?"

Her arms were crossed over her chest now, so he knew she wanted to argue, but he sincerely wasn't in the mood. Their last argument from the night before still bounced around his skull. "I'm tryin' my best."

"Oh, right," she scoffed. "Your best."

 _Here we go._

"Because apparently I'm asking for too much, right? My boyfriend spends all day at school, or studying, and then he comes home at night so that we could have sex and maintain some semblance of a relationship."

Rick massaged his temple. "Lori, please."

"I mean, _God_ , Rick, do I ask you for anything? I never ask you for anything, and yet I still get nothing in return."

He whirled on her, angry now. "Do I ever ask _you_ for anything? Do I ask you to work, or keep the place clean while I'm at school? Do I ask you to pay a single bill while my parents pay off everything for us?"

She bristled. "How dare you – "

"All I ask is that you love me. Love me now, with life like this, the way you did when we first started dating, when things were easier. Love me the way I love you."

He sat on the edge of the bed and put his face in his hands. He was so beyond tired, he didn't know how had the strength to get up and do it all again every day, but he knew it could be worse. Even something like fighting with Lori seemed trivial. He knew people, med school students just like him, who slept two hours max. Some of them barely ate. Some came to class one word away from a breakdown. And his worst problem was that he couldn't spend enough time with his girlfriend.

Lori came behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning her head against his back. They were quiet for a moment.

Lori exhaled. "I hate that you're so good."

He turned his head slightly. "Did I hear that right?"

"If I'm being a bitch, tell me I'm being a bitch. But no, you go on saying things like 'love me like I love you'. You came straight out of a romance novel."

He laughed, recalling how Michonne told him something similar a few weeks ago. "I would say I try my best, but…"

"Ok, see, now you're getting cocky."

She kissed his shoulder, the argument forgotten, but Rick knew by now it would come up again in uglier ways the more they delayed the problem.

In the silence of his car, Rick scrolled till' he found Michonne's number.

"Hello," her voice came on the receiving end, breathless. "Rick?"

"Am I interrupting you marathon?"

She snorted. "More like the treadmill."

"How's peanut?" He could usually hear him babbling nonsensically in the background, and then Michonne would pass him the phone and he would speak to Rick like they were two adults. Last time he'd held Andre, the kid was growing like a weed. He missed him as much as he missed Michonne.

"Enjoying his first day of school, while his mother tries not to burst into tears every five minutes."

Her voice sounded strange, cracked and kind of high-pitched, and he could almost guarantee it wasn't because Andre was starting school. Rick parked his car. "What's wrong?"

He could almost imagine the way she would chew the inside of her cheek, or let her hair fall into her face to hide her eyes. "Everything, I guess."

"Everything, being…"

"I feel stunted. Like no matter what I do, it isn't enough."

"You're doing better than almost everyone I know. You have a steady job, you do well in school, your own place and car. Andre never goes hungry. Your lights are always on."

"And I'm grateful for all of that, but – I've just been _going._ I've been working, and taking care of Andre, and I love him so much, but I don't know who I am anymore. I keep telling myself that I want this, but it's getting harder and harder to believe."

"Hey," he said softly. "It's ok, it's ok."

"Shouldn't I know by now? Shouldn't I be ok, or at least close to being ok?"

"You're not. I promise. And you don't have to have everything figured out. I know that drives you up a wall, but..." He wished he could give her more, but there was only so much he could do from where he was. Rick put his car back in drive, realizing that if he remained idle he'd be late.

"Talk to me," she said softly. "About anything."

"Lori and I had a fight this morning."

"Ouch. What was it this time?"

He sighed. "We don't have time for each other. I'm either sleeping, studying, or at school, and she hates it."

"And she blames you?"

"Yeah."

He couldn't help but think that he sometimes went weeks without talking to Michonne, just quick good morning and good night texts, but she never once berated him for it. And when they did talk again, they slipped back into a rapport like they'd never left.

"Come to Boston." He said suddenly, the thought leaving his lips quicker than he could keep up with.

"You, me, Andre if you want," he continued when he didn't say anything. "Come up here."

He sounded eighteen again. And they were two idealistic teenagers plotting their future together in a car in front of their houses. "You know I can't do that."

"Why not? I have a free weekend, you can take your vacation days. Come on now, you know you wanna say yes."

She chuckled on the other line.

"It's about time I get you up here, anyways. I'm always the one hoppin' on a plane to see you."

"You caught me. You're the one who has to go through buying a ticket, going through the airport and bad TSA's. It is my turn, isn't it?"

"So you're coming?" She could hear his smile on the other end of the line, and that alone chased away any and all of her resolve.

"Yeah, I'll come to Boston."


	12. Come On, Skinny Love

"Seems like a booty call."

Michonne shot Andrea a warning look, but the damage was done. Andre looked up from his leap pad to give his godmother an inquiring look. "What's a booty call?"

Andrea ducked her head into her arm to stifle her laugh, leaving Michonne to do damage control. She cursed under her breath before turning to him, smiling sweetly, pulling a lie out of thin air. "A booty call is when you have to go potty real bad."

That only confused Andre, given the context of the word. "So Rick has to use the potty real bad?"

It was Michonne's turn to bite down on her laughter. By then, Andrea was inconsolable, turning beet red. Andre looked between the two, apparently missing the joke.

Michonne pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "How about you go finish your breakfast and play on the pad in the living room?"

Andre leapt out of his seat, booty call debacle forgotten, making a beeline for the living room. Michonne waited one full minute, letting her guffaw, before smacking Andrea on the arm.

"Sorry! How was I supposed to know he would ask that?"

"He's five years old, he asks about everything. The next time he mentions anything about a booty call I'm calling you to explain."

"Ok," Andrea said. "But it really is a booty call. He tells you he's having problems with his girlfriend, and then invites you over. What do you call that?"

"Maybe it's – wait for it – Rick needing his friend?" She feigned shock. "Crazy, right?"

Andrea took one of Andre's grapes off his plate and popped it into her mouth. "Whether or not you realize it, this is him subconsciously telling you you're the one. Something good happens, call Michonne. Something shitty happens, call Michonne. What does that say?"

"I've always been that person for him."

Andrea quirked a smile, shaking her head. "No. You've always been his first _choice_."

Michonne had no counter argument for that; it was true, but she still tried her best hand. "Was his first choice. I haven't been that for five years."

"Nineteen years of solid friendship versus five years of a rocky relationship." Andrea shrugged, closing her argument. "I rest my case, hun."

Michonne ignored her, tidying things around the kitchen while Andrea watched, amused. "So if this really is a 'friendship' thing why aren't you taking Andre?"

"He's sick," As if on cue, Andre sneezed from the living room. "And I don't want to expose him to change in climate and altitude."

"Oh my God, you really do read those parenting magazines Mom gives you. What did you tell the brat you were doing?"

"I told him Mommy's going to visit Rick in Boston and bringing him lots of souvenirs."

Andrea shrugged. "I'm still putting condoms in your luggage."

"I think you're the one who needs to get laid, Andrea."

* * *

Michonne spent the rest of the week preparing for her leave, and though she didn't want to admit it, she was brimming with excitement. Not only would she be getting away from it all, but she would be doing it with _Rick._ In _Boston._ Teenage Michonne was living for this.

Andre had no qualms about spending time with his Aunts and Grandparents, running into his grandfather's legs the moment he spotted him by the door, and then running into the house to greet the rest of his family. There was something surreal about seeing her son run around the same house she grew up in.

"I swear that child gets bigger every time I see him. Soon he gon' be taller than me!"

Michonne greeted her father with a kiss on his cheek, his graying beard scratching his mouth. "Thanks for taking him in, Dad. Really."

He waved a dismissive hand. "Ah, don't sweat it, baby. I love to see my grandbaby."

He keeled over, coughing roughly. Michonne placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You ok? Need some water?"

"Nah, I'll be fine. Your Daddy's just getting' old that's all."

She sometimes forgot that while she got older, so did her parents. It didn't hit her then how old her father looked with his gray hair and hunched back. Anele and Aneni would call her and tell her how forgetful he was, or how sometimes he'd just stare into space. It made Michonne want to come back and re-settle in her parents' home and help them out. The more she worked, the less she felt like she was doing something for them.

"Don't worry bout' me, girl. Go on now. Tell Rick I said hi."

She nodded, and then called for Andre. He came running back to her with cookie crumbs all over his face. She swung him up and hoisted him onto her waist, brushing the crumbs from his mouth. "Are you gonna behave?"

"Yes, mama."

And then she said, lower so her father wouldn't catch it. "Don't give your grandpa such a hard time, ok?"

He nodded vigorously. Michonne pressed a big, sloppy wet kiss to his cheek before setting him down. And then she hugged her father, longer and tighter than she needed to.

* * *

Michonne's locs had gotten longer, falling just past her chest, the ends of them now the color of toast. She was so different from the girl he'd first left in the airport that first time in Boston. Her round face looked sharper than he remembered, though her cheeks were still round and full of life. She stood taller, straighter, her eyes no longer dancing like they used to.

When she saw him, pushing his way past unsuspecting tourists, she broke into a smile, and it was like her entire face blossomed. It took Rick a second to gather himself, remind himself this was his best friend, not a crush he harbored.

When at last they hugged, it felt like coming home. It felt like late night's reading comics under sheets when they should've been sleeping, exchanging notes underneath the desks during math class, skipping school to mess around in the park. Secrets and the smell of her favorite perfume and drunken kisses on eighteenth birthday's.

He squeezed her tight, until he could feel her laughter vibrating against his chest. "If you want to make it out of this airport with my ribs intact..."

"Sorry." He released her, apologizing by kissing her temple. "I am just so damn happy to see you."

She looked into his eyes, her favorite shade of blue, and mirrored his smile with her own. "I am, too."

Rick's condo was larger than she remembered, or maybe the photos and video's he sent made them look smaller. The dining room alone would fit three of her kitchen's.

It didn't bother her. Rick came from money, and that was no secret. The Grimes had the largest house on their block, his parents were both doctors, and when his fraternal grandfather had died, he'd left him a large portion of the inheritance. Still, Rick never gloated about his wealth. Nothing in the way he carried himself showed it, and Michonne knew that was intentional.

Lori, and all the wealth she hailed from, seemed to be the icing on top.

"How are you?" She greeted, giving Michonne an awkward side hug full of bones and elbow. "I don't think I've seen you since last Thanksgiving!"

"It's been too long," Michonne agreed, deftly maneuvering out of Lori's embrace. "I thought I'd visit, see what's so great about Boston."

"Well, I know Rick's glad to have you here. You're the topic of a lot of conversations."

"A good topic, I hope." She kept her tone light, but the statement was serious. She was never able to tell if Lori was being condescending or not.

Lori didn't answer her, smiling widely as Rick came from around the hall, where he'd been setting up Michonne's suitcases. "You're all set! Now we can go – "

"You're leaving?"

Michonne looked between Rick and Lori, and the tension between them that could be cut with a knife.

"I wanna show her around," he gestured to Michonne. "Let her see the city, since she's never been."

Lori laughed, but it was mirthless. "Funnily enough, I'm almost sick of this city."

Michonne saw a muscle in Rick's jaw feather, deducing that Lori's statement had nothing to do with the city at all. She intervened, clearing her throat. "We'll be back in a few hours. Right, Rick?"

Rick already had one hand on the door. "No promises."

Michonne turned to give him a warning look, but he was already out the door. She turned to smile apologetically at Lori, who reflected her smile, as if she felt bad for her, too.

Once Michonne was inside the hall, Rick's rough, familiar hands clasped hers, and they half walked, half ran toward the elevators. Once inside, Rick punched the fourteenth floor, the very last one.

Michonne smiled, narrowing her eyes at him. "What's on the fourteenth floor?"

Rick flashed her a lazy smile. "Heaven."

She couldn't argue with that, and so she simply laughed.

Heaven turned out to be the penthouse floor, the one large and vacant enough to use for house parties, which Rick informed her seemed to be its only function so far. Rick walked Michonne from empty room to empty room, and then drank in her face when at last they stepped onto the balcony.

The skyline could be seen from miles and miles. Skyscrapers brushed the heavens, and the people below them seemed ant-like in comparison. The afternoon sun glittered against everything, making the whole scene look ethereal. Heaven.

Rick offered her a beer, the last one, which she took. "You come up here often?"

"As often as I can, yeah. Which isn't too often."

"Alone?" She took a sip of her beer.

He paused before answering, watching her a bit warily. "I haven't bought Lori up here, if that's what you're asking."

Her lips quirked into a smile. "So I'm the only girl you've let into your adult tree house? Gotta say, I feel pretty special right now."

"Well you should," he took the beer from her, and drank. "I always think of you when I'm up here."

Heat tickled her cheeks.

"Whenever I can't call you, I come up here, think of what you'd say to me."

She didn't know what to say to that, so she took the beer back from him and drank. She needed to be somewhat under the influence for what she was about to say next.

"Why don't you leave her?"

He recoiled as if she'd hit him.

"If it's such a burden for you, why don't you just leave?"

He'd known this conversation was coming, but now that it was here, his answers were in shambles. It was Michonne. Whenever he was around her, circles turned to squares, and left was right. He could never think straight around, or about her.

"I've given Lori five years of my life," he said simply. "I don't think I know how to stop."

"That's not love, that's obligation."

"That how you feel about law school? That you're obligated to go now that you're one year in?"

She tapped her fingernails against the bottle. "I made a promise to myself when Andre was born." She cut her eyes to him. "And promises to myself."

He wanted to brush her hair out of her face, but instead leaned his forearms against the balcony railing.

Michonne sighed. "I said I would do whatever it took to get me where I want to be. No matter the cost, I would get there. Even if it was hard. I owed – I owe myself. I promised Andre I would be the best mother I could be, and that means going to school and giving him the best life possible. The point is, I made promises, Rick. Have you?"

He kept his steely gaze on the horizon. "No," admitted. "But five years is a long time to just…leave."

And nineteen years was a long time to quietly love someone.

Rick looked into her eyes a beat too long. Michonne shook her head and pressed the beer into his chest. "Enough of this. Let's go somewhere."

Rick stood there a moment, the condensation from the cold beer seeping into his shirt, wondering if he was actually crazy. For thinking it. For meaning it when his girlfriend, the woman he supposedly loved, was just three floors below them.

Rick kept his distance on their way out of the penthouse, scared to so much as brush her shoulder. Michonne didn't seem to notice, or if she did, she didn't show she minded. "Where are we going?"

There was so much to do, Rick didn't know what to choose first. So he simply said, "Everything."

And everything they did. He took her to see Freedom Trail, Boston Harbor, the Fine Arts museum, and his personal favorites. They stopped at a record store, Tupac for Michonne, Prince for Rick. He took her to his favorite restaurant, and she didn't gag at his order of peanut soup like Lori did the first time he took her there, but she did laugh and ask for a spoon to try.

Her mind couldn't help but wander. What would her life be like if, five years ago, she hadn't gone into that hotel room with Mike? She would love Boston like Rick did, know all the places like the back of her hand. Would she have met someone? Would Rick have met Lori? Where would the two of them fit?

In retrospect, the thought of life without her son crushed her. She didn't regret him , or the life she had, one bit.

"He reminds me of you," she told Rick as they walked back to his condo, slowly, still savoring the day and each other's company. "More than Mike. But I think that's because I love him so much."

He chuckled. "He does, doesn't he?"

"God, we had so much energy when we were his age. Especially you. You never walked, Rick. You crashed into everything."

He laughed, because it was true. His mother used to say Rick went from sitting up to running, skipping the crawling and walking stage entirely.

"Not like you made that any better," he nudged her. "We used to bust our asses together."

She laughed again, stopping mid-walk because she knew she'd keel over on the pavement and curl up into a ball of laughter.

When they returned to Rick's condo, it was to find Lori and Shane preparing dinner. Well, Lori prepared dinner, while Shane took full advantage of their wine.

"So you're Michonne," he drawled. "It's about damn time we finally met. Rick here's been keeping you all to himself."

The smiled uncomfortably. Shane only popped up in conversations she had with Rick a few times, so she knew little of him, and wasn't interested in what she saw so far.

Dinner was uncomfortable for several reasons. One was that Lori invited her cousin Eugene, who Michonne found both weird and endearing. Second was Shane's jokes, which missed all their marks and made her wants to shove a bread roll in his mouth. Third was the food, some strange concoction of a salad she couldn't even begin to pick apart.

Fourth was Rick, and his inability to remain calm. He was constantly finding excuses to touch her, or invade her personal space, which was usually the case, but something about it in that setting seemed strangely intimate, especially with his girlfriend sitting across from them. He rested his arm on the back of her chair, put his hand on her shoulder, brushed his fingers against her knee (whether accidental or intentional, her body still elicited a shiver) and even initiated footsies.

Lori had barely spoken two words to her over dinner, so Michonne was surprised to see her enter the guest room unannounced.

"Lori," she said, the surprise coloring her voice. "Do you need something?"

Lori quietly shut the door, and then turned to Michonne, looking at her as if she were seeing Michonne in a very different light.

"You know, when Rick first told me about you, I didn't know what to think." She expelled a breath, turning her eyes toward the ceiling. She smiled ruefully. "It's every girl's worst nightmare, loving a guy who's best friend is a girl."

Michonne looked down, blinking at the bed sheets. This was a curve ball. "Lori, I…"

"I was jealous – especially those first few months. God, I was envious. They way Rick talked about you, you'd think you were the one he was in love with. But then he would kiss me and I'd think 'Guys who are in love with someone else don't kiss like this'. He told me he loved me, and I believed him with everything in me. I loved him, too." She chuckled dryly. "I know it doesn't seem like it now, but I did. So much."

"I admit, I did think I had the advantage. I'm white, you're black. I come from decent money. I got into Harvard, for Christ's sake, but so did you."

"You've got it all messed up if you think Rick cares about that."

Lori peered at her. "I did. I see that now."

"What are you trying to say?" Michonne couldn't keep the edge out of her voice. "That I'm not any good for him?"

"On the contrary, actually. You didn't let me finish. The years went by, things got harder for us. I pick fights. I put the knife in his hands, and he's too good a man to admit it, but he hates me for it. I know he doesn't wanna be with me, but he's staying because he thinks it's the right thing to do. The noble thing."

 _Out of obligation_ , Michonne thought.

"We never see each other these days. And this week, I picked another fight. He told me we'd have time, and all I could think of was the weekend he had off. Imagine my surprise when he tells me you're coming over for the weekend."

"It was so clear to me then, what all this was. A distraction. Then this morning when he kissed me goodbye to go pick you up from the airport, he kissed me like…he kissed me like someone who's thinking of someone else."

The tears spilled, hot and fast, down Michonne's cheeks. "I don't want Rick, Lori."

She shrugged, but there was nothing nonchalant about it. "Maybe that's true. Doesn't change the fact that he chose you over me. And now I'm pregnant, and I know he'll love this baby, but I'm wondering where I fit into that equation."

Michonne inhaled a sharp intake of breath. "Pregnant?"

"If everything goes right, this baby will have a great life. Loving parents. Two instead of one, I know your son doesn't know what that's like."

Michonne looked at her, shocked that she'd have the nerve, the absolute gall, to say that to her face. If Lori wasn't pregnant she'd have earned herself a punch in the face.

Lori clasped her hands in front of her. "Rick told me all about Mike, how he knocked you up and then just…left. He feels bad, Michonne. You make him feel bad that he has it so easy here."

Michonne swiped the tears from her cheeks. "Go. And I mean that in the nicest way possible. Just go."

Lori nodded, feeling sick herself. She was the villain, the evil bitch. But she would do whatever it took to keep her family intact, even if it was falling apart well-enough by itself. "I really am sorry, Michonne. For all of it."

* * *

The following morning, Rick discovered Michonne, fully dressed, her luggage in front of the door. "What's this?"

"I'm going home," she said stonily. "Back to Atlanta."

He blinked hard, truly not understanding. "It's Saturday. We still have two days left together."

"To do what? Parade me around Boston trying to convince me of – what, exactly? How much better it is than Atlanta?"

"Michonne, what are you – "

"I'm sorry I got pregnant, Rick. I'm sorry you miss me and that we live in different cities and that your life sucks, but me being here won't make it any better."

Her voice cracked in strange places, her lip wobbling. She was about to cry, and he couldn't even begin to know why. "Michonne, you're not making any sense."

He took a step towards her, and she took a step back.

"Let's just talk about this," he said, a desperate attempt to get her to stay. "Let's go to the park, and you can yell at me there."

"I have a flight to catch."

"Then let me drive you to the airport."

"I can take a taxi. I know it's hard to believe, but I have money, too."

What was that even supposed to mean? He rubbed his temple, trying to clear his head of the remnants of sleep. "Tell me what I did, and I'll make it better. Give me that, at _least_."

She shrugged, knowing she was breaking his heart, but also knowing she couldn't stop now. "We're not us anymore, Rick. We're pretending we're the same people, but we're not, and I can't keep up the pretenses anymore. I can't keep pretending I'm the same person without you. I can't pretend I like that person anymore."

"Not good enough," he shook his head. "That's not a good enough reason for me to let you go."

"It is. It has to be."

"I can't lose you," he said, his hoarse voice barely above a whisper. He was begging her now. "Please, just stay."

She said nothing, unlocked the door, and broke both their hearts when she shut it.

* * *

"You ok? How's Rick?"

"I had a long flight, Mom. I just want to go home."

Her mother nodded, wanting to prod but knowing her daughter wasn't a child anymore. She missed when she could crawl into her mother's lap and tell cry about her day. She wanted to do exactly that.

Andre was a deep sleeper, so he didn't notice when he was being taken into his mother's arms, but he would be in for quite the surprise tomorrow. Michonne watched him sleep as the taxi cruised along the bumpy road, ignoring the incessant ache in her chest that no pain reliever would remedy.

After he was tucked in, she took the time to put all his thing's away, needing to put sleep off for as long as possible. She flipped through the pictures he drew – she always did, they made her smile, and found one that made her stop.

One of the figures was obviously her, because she recognized the wacky way Andre depicted her locs. The shorter one in the middle was obviously him. And the third – and an unidentifiable male figure.

Ten minutes later, with a blank sheet of paper in front of her, she began to write.


	13. Something Blue

"What did you say to her?"

Lori capped the orange juice she'd been pouring, turning back to the fridge. "Someone's in a foul mood this morning."

Rick worked his jaw. He would never in his life put his hands on another woman, but in that moment he wanted to throttle her. "I'm gonna ask you again. What did you say to her?"

Lori massaged her fingers, meeting her boyfriend's deadly gaze with her indifferent one. "Nothing she couldn't handle if she really wanted to stay."

"Why is no one giving me a straight answer to anything?" He wondered aloud.

She shrugged. "Maybe you're asking the wrong questions."

"Don't get smug, because I know it was you."

"Oh, you're sure?"

"Damn right I'm sure. We were together the whole day, fine. Next day, she's telling me she's done with me."

"Maybe she changed her mind. Happens all the time."

"You're right. Like now, when I leave you."

Lori chugged down a big gulp of orange juice. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"And why not?"

"Because I'm pregnant."

Rick faltered, while Lori crossed her arms over her chest. "Lori, oh my – how many – "

"Four weeks, four days." She confirmed with a small smile. "You're gonna be a Daddy."

He wanted to go over to her. A few days ago he would have, but his suspicions and contempt kept him at bay, even as his joy at being a father threatened to overarching that. Lori took that first step, tentatively touching his face. "I know you want this." She took his hand and pressed it against the flat of her stomach. "A baby."

"This baby," he said carefully. "Is the only reason I'm letting you stay here."

He took her hand from his face and pinned it to her side.

"It's been done for a while now, but I was too stupid. As soon as our child is born, whatever we have together is done, Lori. And that's a promise."

He grabbed his keys and left the house without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

* * *

"Michonne, someone's here to see you."

Michonne barely looked up from the letter she typed. "Who is it?"

"Some guy that says he knows you. His name is Mike."

Michonne stopped typing, shut her laptop, and spun around in her office chair. "Mike what?"

But she already knew. Of course she knew.

"Anthony."

"Oh, he has some fucking nerve," she stood up. "Can you watch my things?"

"Sure."

Michonne marched out of her office, anyone within a five mile radius skirting her when they saw her scowl. She hummed with anger, literally humming with anger. The last time she'd seen Mike Anthony, he'd been rummaging through a fridge while she fretted about the latex condom he'd let get stuck inside her. She was pissed at him then, and she was pissed at him when he never returned her calls, and she was pissed at him when he changed his number, and now her Mike meter was filled with so much red, there was no telling how she'd react when she saw him.

He really was there in the lobby, holding a bouquet of flowers, grinning like an idiot when he saw her approaching. "Michonne – "

"Shut the fuck up." She said simply once she reached him.

His eyebrows notched together.

She took a deep breath, getting her composure. The only reasons – the only reason she hadn't slapped him by now, was because they were in a room full of white people, but most importantly, a room full of white people who ran her job.

"What the hell are you doing here, Mike?"

"I got your letter," he said. "I wanna meet him. My son."

"I would have loved to hear that five years ago. Now? Not so much."

"Then why'd you write that letter?"

"It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Andre drew the picture, and I wrote the letter, but I never thought you'd actually show up."

"Well that letter really made me think, Michonne, and I wanna meet him. I am his Dad."

She raised an eyebrow. "Are you? Cause you sure weren't his Dad when he cried in the middle of the night, or when started walking for the first time, or when he – "

"Ok, I get it," he held up a hand, earnest. "And I'm sorry as hell, but I want to fix it. I wake up every day thinking of him, what he's like, what could've been. You know?"

"I _know_ you're full of shit, yeah."

"Yes, and I'm an asshole, and a deadbeat Dad. That's fair. But what's not fair is keeping me away from my son."

Michonne continued to glare at him.

Mike clasped his hands. "You want me to start begging you? Get on my hands and knees like I'm in an R&B music video?"

She rolled her eyes. "You are such an asshole. Look, if this were me and you, I'd be calling the security on your ass right now. But since it involves my son – "

"Our son." he interjected.

" – Andre, it's a different story."

He smiled, and when he did, the resemblance to Andre was uncanny. She hated seeing her favorite smile on his face.

"You get one chance, Mike. One."

"Hell yeah, I do."

She got in his face then, having to stand on the tips of her toes to reach his height. "If you fuck this up, you're gone. And don't even try me by involving the court, cause you know I got something for that ass."

"Ok, I got it."

"And you better be good," she snapped. "I mean James Evans good at this thing."

Mike nodded. "I'm gonna Google him right now."

* * *

"Go on. Go say hi."

Andre pressed into his mother's leg more, peeking shyly at Mike from where he stood a few feet away. "I'm scared." He mumbled.

Michonne bent so that she was eye level with him. "It's ok to be scared. This is new."

He didn't say anything, nervously twisting one of her locs in his fingers.

She knew Mike must be feeling rejected right about then, which was frankly more than he deserved. "I'm right here, Andre. Mommy is right here."

"What if he doesn't like me?"

"Then there's more for me to love."

He smiled a bit at her.

She stood again, taking his hand in hers, and together they took tentative steps towards Mike.

As the day progressed, Michonne could see Andre unfold in front of Mike, the more comfortable he got. And for the most part, Mike was good at tapping into that side of Andre. Some days were harder - Andre was closed off, didn't want to speak to him, threw tantrums. Some days, it felt as if Mike had always been there.

Except for small moments, like when Mike would forget Andre's favorite color, or that he was allergic to peanuts. Those always thrust them back into reality.

"I can't believe we did that." Mike said one day as they watched him sleep. He was worn out from a day full of fun, and after kissing Michonne and hugging Mike, collapsed on the couch.

"You mean what _I_ did," Michonne corrected, going to the kitchen now. "You just provided the DNA."

"Oh, it's like that now?" He followed her, chuckling in that way of his she knew Andre would catch up to.

Michonne cracked a smile, and turned the water on to begin the dishes.

"Real talk, though," Mike said, his voice taking on a serious tone. "You think I'm doing good?"

"He likes you," she assured him. "You're doing good…so far."

Ge grinned, his eyes dropping to languish down her body. He'd been doing it for a few days now, hoping she'd notice and say something, but around him Michonne had a one-track mind.

"And you?"

She sighed, rolling her shoulders. Well, she couldn't say she hadn't seen this coming. All of Mike's subtle flirting had to lead somewhere. She settled on playing dumb. "What about me?"

"Am I doing good with you, too?"

"I don't know, Mike. Why does it matter?"

"It does."

She turned off the sink water, but didn't turn around. "It matters that Andre likes you. Not me. You're a big boy, you can handle that, right?"

"The mother of my child liking me is important."

"You only made it here because Andre wants you to be. If this were about me, your sorry ass would be back in Florida."

He ignored her jab. "I like you."

She smirked. "You don't know enough about me to like me."

"I like what I know so far."

"Shut up."

"You wanna know what I thought the first time I saw you? I thought 'Damn, if I could have a girl like that, I'd be happy for the rest of my life.'"

Michonne snorted. "That was your dick talking."

"Maybe so, but it was right."

"You had your time. Four whole minutes, if I remember right."

"Would you believe me if I said it was so good, I couldn't hold on past that?"

"Let's see," she pretended to think. "No."

"Then let me make it up to you." She didn't realize how close he'd come until he brushed her locs away from her neck. "I got time, now."

"Mike…"

His lips touched her neck, and she sighed as her eyes fluttered shut, sinking into his touch. It was wrong, she knew it was wrong, but that wasn't stopping her. It'd been a while since she'd been touched – all her hookups were rough and experimental, never soft and slow. Mike was both rough and soft, making her feel like she was eighteen again and they were in the honeymoon suite, with him groping blindly at her breasts.

She let out a silent hiss as Mike's hand found its way under her blouse, and the gentle way he fondled her reminded her that they definitely weren't eighteen anymore.

"We have to be quiet," she warned. "He's asleep."

He nipped her ear. "So you like me?"

"Keep going, and I'll like you as much as you want."

* * *

"So let me get this straight," Andrea set her drink down and clasped her hands on the table. "We're talking about the guy who abandoned you in a hotel room with a condom stuck up your vagina, right?"

Michonne nodded slowly. "Mike works, too."

Andrea started and restarted her sentence, before finally just saying, "What the hell, Michonne. I raised you better than this."

"I know it was stupid. Beyond idiotic, but God, it was worth it."

"And he made it past the four minute mark?"

"He made it so far, I had to stop counting."

They exchanged low-fives under the table. Andrea picked up her drink again. "So are you two…back?"

"He seems like he's changed. And he's so good with Andre. I'm taking my time, but…I really want this to work. I just want to be someone's, Andrea. I want to be happy with someone. And maybe...maybe this is it."

* * *

EIGHT MONTHS LATER

(MOST OF WHICH WAS (KIND OF) HELL FOR RICK, AND (MOSTLY) BLISSFUL FOR MICHONNE)

Rick came home to an empty and cold apartment. Lori always found an excuse not to be there, and besides, he found no reason see should be. He'd given her his master bedroom (there was a bathroom inside) and slept in most of the other rooms. The only people who came by were his maids.

He thumbed through his mail with disinterest, stopping only when he caught Michonne's name.

Michonne. Even reading her name felt like a punch to her gut. He tore open the letter, desperate for anything from her. They hadn't spoken since the day he'd left, despite his persistent calls and inquiries. She simply didn't want anything to do with him, as far as he could tell.

Until now.

He tore open the envelope, and a card fell out. Plastered on its cover was Michonne's smiling face, Andre's smiling face, and – Mike's. Mike Anthony.

It took Rick a second to put the pieces together, and when he did, the card nearly slipped through his fingers.

 _You are cordially invited to witness the union of_

 _Michonne Grey_

 _Mike Anthony_

 _On April 15th_

He read and re-read the card cover for cover, hoping to see Michonne's neat scrawl with a personal message to him, but there was nothing, because he was nothing to her now. A regular guest. He would wave at her from the pews and she would look right over him. To marry Mike. _Mike_. Now that he thought of it, he did recall her saying she'd marry Mike in a heartbeat. How ironic.

He wouldn't be going to the wedding. Out of spite, maybe, but mainly because the baby would be there any day now, and he didn't want to miss it in case Lori went into labor. Rick had half the mind to mail the invitation back – wrong address, return to sender, but thought better of it. This was the most recent picture he had of her, and probably the only one he'd get in a while. He could cut Mike out if it really bothered him, keep Michonne and Andre. It was pathetic, but it was all he had.

* * *

"Is he out there?"

"No, but his parents are." Andrea sighed, setting her bouquet of flowers down. "I'm starting to think you're more concerned with Rick being there than Mike, the actual person you're marrying."

"Sorry, sorry," Michonne adjusted her dress. "It's just…I thought he'd be here."

"Because you want him to witness your special day, or take you away from it?"

She frowned, truly hating how much Andrea spoke her mind. But she appreciated the reality check. "I'd never miss his wedding. I thought…I thought he'd do the same for me."

Andrea frowned sympathetically. "You never opened that door, Michonne. He probably thinks you hate him."

That was so far from the truth, it almost made her laugh. But if she laughed, she'd cry, and if she cried, she'd ruin her face, and if that happened the entire wedding would be engulfed in flames so it wouldn't even matter if Rick came or not.

There was a knock on the door. "Is everyone decent?"

Andrea opened it. "The bride wants to run away."

"Oh, where we goin'? We crossin' the border?"

Michonne laughed, feeling some of her nerves settle. Her Dad looked at her from beneath her glasses. "You know you don't have to do this."

"No, I want to."

"Then c'mon! The church is waitin'."

He took her arm, and together they left the dressing room. They waited for the orchestra – first the flower boy (Mike and Michonne had argued back and both on whether or not to let Andre be the flower boy at his request, and of course Michonne won) the bridesmaids, and then Michonne.

She was supposed to be looking straight ahead at Mike, she knew, but her eyes darted to the Grimes. They both smiled at her warmly, but there was no Rick and his steady blue eyes. It was only then she realized what she was missing – something blue.


	14. Going and Gone

Michonne traced circles into the sand with a stick, nothing special, just random shapes and sometimes her new, full name: Michonne Grey-Anthony

The Florida sun was no joke, beating down something near ninety-degrees, making the ocean look like the diamond that glittered on her left ring finger.

Mike was inside preparing a 'special' honeymoon lunch for them, as he called it, which only made her hesitant because the few times he'd cooked for her had been disastrous, to say the least. Meanwhile, she was on the beach enjoying the sun – and waiting for a very important phone call.

After the wedding, Ruth Grimes had cornered her – literally cornered her, strolling into the dressing room – and demanded to know what was happening between Michonne and her son.

Michonne told her what she could, and let Ruth put the other pieces together. Yesterday, Ruth, in the no-nonsense tone she used with Rick, called Michonne and told her to be expecting a call from Rick today.

So she'd spent the whole day by her phone, skipping snorkeling and boat rides in favor of passing her phone back and forth between her hands.

As if the universe was keeping tabs, her phone buzzed in the sand beside her. Michonne scrambled to pick it up, clearing the sand off before pressing it to her ear. "Rick?"

Rick's familiar twang sounded on the other line. "Michonne."

She pitched up to her feet. "I didn't think you'd call."

Rick sank down into his couch and propped his feet up on the table. "You didn't think I'd want to."

It wasn't a question; he just knew.

"You'd have reason to. I haven't been...fair."

He let out something between a snort and a sigh. "Changing your number, not answering any of my e-mails, ignoring me – that's one way to put it."

She pressed her lips together. "I've been an asshole."

"You don't know the half of it," Rick rubbed his eyes. "I spent that first month in a daze, wonderin' what the hell I did, or said. Started lashing out on everyone. At least all the other times we've fought I knew what happened, but you just…left."

"I shouldn't have. I know that now."

Rick sat up to pour himself a glass of rum. "Lori told me what happened."

"Did she?"

He let the drink wash down his throat. "She's been feeling really remorseful since the whole thing went down. But the things she told me…Michonne, I'm sorry."

"She told you…everything?"

"Everything. Shouldn't she?"

"She said some pretty heavy things, Rick."

"She told me about the whole money thing," he said. "I don't look down on you because I have money."

"It wasn't about the money."

"Then why'd you – "

"It was the insinuation that I didn't 'fit in' your lifestyle, and that you felt bad for me. Is that true?"

The silent moment after told her everything she needed to know. She looked up at the sky, shaking her head. "Unbelievable."

"Not like that, Michonne. I thought seeing the life I had – how easy it is for me – would put you off."

"Well you're wrong. I actually felt kind of bad for you, Rick. You never work for anything. It never bothered me when we were kids, but now that I work, I feel _bad_ for you. You'd flounder in my shoes."

"I know, and I don't take it any of it for granted. I respect you more than anything, you gotta know that."

"You shouldn't have told her about Mike, either."

That was an asshole move on his part, but he didn't counter her. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, too."

She curled into the sand again, closer to the shore now, so that the waves lapped at her feet. "When did we get to be such a mess?"

The day after her eighteenth birthday, he thought, but didn't say aloud. That was when his feelings for her began to cloud everything, and it was all downhill from there.

"I don't want us to be," he said quietly. "I don't care how much our lives change, I always want you in it."

She smiled, not even realized she was tracing M + R into the sand. "And I want you in mine."

"You really married now? To Mike? What happened to that?"

"He changed my mind."

The way she said it made his stomach reel, but it was Michonne who sounded sick with love. "Do you love him?"

"I do." She said cautiously, noticing the slight change in tone.

Rick cleared his throat, and got up to pour himself another drink. "And he makes you happy?"

"Yes."

The decisiveness of her answers might as well have been delivered with a slap in the face. But he needed to know that this was it for her, so that he could work on letting her go, officially. "Then that's good."

"Alright then," she said promptly. "Is there anything else you wanna say?"

I'm in love with you, and I have been for a while now, and I probably will be for God knows how long, but now I have to live the rest of my life watching you love someone else. "Nothing."

Mike hollered for her, the smell of fried salmon wafting out from their beach house. "Gotta go. I'll talk to you tomorrow?"

"I'll be here." Loving you, not knowing what to do with it.

* * *

8 YEARS LATER

(MOST OF WHICH WAS…8 YEARS)

For the most part, Michonne loved her house. It was large, but not enough to be overwhelming or intimidating. But her office was directly below Andre's, and every day there was a different, louder sound coming from up there.

She stormed up the stairs before reaching his room, not bothering to knock. "Andre, the game is too loud!"

He squinted at the screen, his thumbs moving faster than she could keep up with. Next to him was Kayla, equally as aggressive with her controller. "What?"

Michonne entered the room, and tugged on a random plug behind his TV. It did something, because the music stopped, and all that could be heard after was Andre and Kayla's cry of defeat.

"Ma, _why_ did you do that?"

"The music is too loud. You know I'm working downstairs."

"This game has to be felt, Mom."

"And these bills have to get paid. Keep it down."

She shut the door behind her, shaking her head. There was a clatter downstairs, which probably meant Mike was home from work.

"Hey, baby," he said when he saw her. "Have you seen my sangria?"

"You're drinking this early? We haven't even had dinner yet."

"Oh," he said casually. "I can't stay for dinner."

Michonne had already taken the seasoned meat out, and set it gently down on the counter. "Why not?"

"I have a meeting to go to."

"Mike, you skipped dinner yesterday."

"Yeah, it's just," he was still looking for the sangria, frantically peering through cabinet after cabinet. Little did he know how futile it all was. Michonne had expertly hidden the sangria in their closet. "Things are getting kind of hectic at work. I'm sorry, baby. I'll make it up to you, promise."

She chuckled dryly. "You said that yesterday."

Mike gave up looking, turning to face his wife. "What?"

"You said you'd make it up to me yesterday."

He scratched the back of his head. "Shoot. I did, didn't I."

She nodded, pursing her lips. "Is there something you need to talk about?"

"Nah, I'm good," he grinned. "I got a job I love, a bomb ass house, my son, and a sexy ass wife, who happens to be a lawyer. Can't complain."

"Paralegal." She corrected.

Michonne placed the chicken back in the fridge, knowing that by the time she finally got around to actually cooking it, it wouldn't be good anymore. "Ok, then. Guess we're eating pizza again. Andre's gonna be thrilled to hear _that_."

After not finding the sangria, Mike instead settled for wine. Michonne watched him pour his glass to the brim. He took a long sip, caught his breath, and beckoned her forward. "Come here."

She did. He wrapped his arms around her with the glass. "You know I love you, right?"

"I love you, too," she said softly. "But I think we should talk about this drinking thing."

"There is no drinking thing. I come home after a long day, and unwind with some alcohol. You have nothing to worry about."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

* * *

"Do you have everything? Your medicine?"

"Stop fussin' over us, girl."

"I'm just making sure."

They all piled out of the house, no one left now that her twins sisters were attending college in New York and her parents were currently on their way to a missionary trip in Ghana.

Andre and Michonne helped them pile their things into the van, and then it was time to say their final goodbyes. Her father squeezed Andre around the shoulders. "Be good to your Mama, now."

"Yes, granddad," Andre clapped him on the back. "Have fun in Ghana."

They piled into the van, and then drove away. Andre and Michonne waved until it disappeared around the street corner.

* * *

"And his breath smelled like alcohol?"

"Yes. And it was powerful as all hell."

Andrea looked up from filing her nails, frowning. "He's not cheating on you, is he?"

"God, Andrea, no! He's just scaring me with this drinking thing." She leaned her forearms on the counter. "Got a 13 year old who doesn't listen, and a 33 year old who won't listen. Sixty-two year old parents going on a spur-of-the-moment trip to Africa. Kind of fucked up, huh?"

Andrea grunted her assent. A newer, higher voice said, "Michonne Grey?"

Michonne turned. Jessie Anderson stood there, gaping at her from beneath huge, designer glasses. "Amazing."

"Jessie," Michonne grinned, surprising herself, because she felt genuinely glad to see her. "What are you doing back in Atlanta?"

Jessie pulled her glasses to the top of her head. "Right? I've been running around New York and L.A, Atlanta is basically a foreign planet to me now."

"You're kind of a big deal now, with the whole TV show thing."

Jessie rolled her eyes, out of exhaustion more than anything. "My schedule is packed. I had a photo shoot yesterday in L.A, a radio interview today before my flight, and now, Atlanta for auditions. I'm trying to get the female lead in this new show, _The Dead Walking."_ She looked at Michonne. "You work here?"

"I work at the firm next door," Michonne smiled sourly. "Just got promoted to paralegal."

"Oh, yeah, you did always want to do that lawyer thing."

And just like that, the gladness deflated.

Jessie pulled out a hand mirror and began fixing her lipstick. "I won't even get to enjoy Atlanta. I fly out to Boston tomorrow."

"Boston? You should go see Rick."

Jessie cut her eyes to her. "Rick Grimes? You two still talk?"

"Yeah. He has a son, now. Carl. He could use a friendly face."

"Perfect," she ruffled her hair, and then put the mirror away. "I'll have my people call you for the info. Do you work here?" She looked at Andrea now.

"Well, I'm behind the counter, aren't I? 141 isn't it?"

Jessie nodded, and Andrea dropped the key in her waiting hand. "Can I have a bottle of Smart Water sent up to my room, it's the only water I can drink? And room service? Thanks."

She strutted away, leaving a trail of expensive smelling perfume in her wake. Andrea made a disgusted sound at the back of her throat. "Now _that_ is fucked up."


	15. Death so Short, Life so Long

"Time of death, 3: 47 P.M."

Rick ignored the call, and even the monitor as it descended into a flat line. The heartbeat he pumped for was no more, but he couldn't stop. If there was even the barest indication of life, he wanted to know he did everything he possibly could. "There's still time."

Everyone in the room went silent, the eerie monitor and Rick's grunts the only sounds. Finally, a nurse came over and shut the monitor off.

"It's over, Rick," Dr. Kane said from beside him. "Stop it."

He used the last bit of his strength to deliver one final push. The body lay still.

Rick cursed, unable to look at the man who'd been laughing with him just hours before, much less accept his death. Death was inevitable. Death in a hospital was almost expected. People died around him every day – that was the nature of the job. It still didn't make it any more acceptable, or easier.

Earlier, as Rick prepped him for surgery, John joked about death. "Death is just the good old end. Life, now that's the hard part."

"That's a good philosophy to have." Rick grinned, pressing the chest piece of his stethoscope to John's heart. His heartbeat came back to Rick slow and disjointed, and his blood pressure dropped to worrying levels; he'd need to be in the operating room faster than sooner.

He chuckled, not even noticing Rick's shift in demeanor. "It's true. And I've lived a good, full life. I lived. I loved, though I almost missed my mark."

Rick didn't need to feign interest, even though he welcomed the distraction. "What does that mean - if you don't mind me asking?"

"My wife and I," he explained. "We got married five years ago. I'm fifty-five now, but I was fourteen when we met."

"And in all that time, the two of you never saw it for yourselves?"

John settled back, wistful now. "We were friends for a long time. I went through two marriages, she went through three, before we reconnected. And she's the one." He laughed, and then wheezed. "Isn't that amazing?"

"Sounds like a great story to tell the grand kids one day." He said, subtly letting him know he'd try to help him live to tell the tale.

John stopped coughing long enough to really look at Rick. "Oh, I don't know. It's nice but…we waited so long. If you love someone, you should let them know right away. No matter what the cost may be. Love is such a torturous thing to keep inside of you." He gave a hearty (pun not intended) chuckle. "It's probably why I have this busted up heart."

Rick chuckled with him, appreciating his brand of humor, even if it was cynical. He learned that people with intensive health issues were more likely to joke about death, especially if they didn't think they'd make it. It was the most bitter irony.

Now he could only see John lying still on the table every time he closed his eyes. That image would be haunting the back of his eyelids for a while, along with his words.

He thought of calling Michonne to tell her, or to just hear her voice, but he never could quite get himself to tap his finger against her name.

* * *

"This is Michonne Grey-Anthony speaking, how can I help you?"

No sound came out from the other line, save for heavy breathing that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Michonne pulled the phone away from her ear, and then pressed it back. "Hello?"

There was a whimper, and then a loud, broken sob. Michonne rarely ever heard her mother cry, but she knew instantly the sob belonged to her. "Mom? What happened?"

"I d-don't…He wouldn't…"

"Where's Dad?" . "Mom, where is he?"

No words. The resounding silence did all the answering.

* * *

Theodore Grey lay still in his casket, his arms artfully laid over his chest, more still than Michonne had ever seen him. Even when he slept he seemed to always be moving, buzzing with some untouchable energy no one else could see. That was death, she thought. No soul, and the body that encased it lifeless without it.

She watched his face for a long time, knowing that after this she would never see it again except in memories and photographs, which would be insufficient, and painful, always. She felt his absence with every fresh intake of breath, every painful exhale. And since she couldn't just stop drawing breath, she'd continue to spin out a painful existence.

Next to her, Andre stood with tears silently rolling down his cheeks. He was silent, too. His mouth set in a permanent line, as if it didn't hit him his grandfather was really gone till' he saw the body, touched the cold planes of his face. Michonne put her arms around him, a silent reminder she was there.

Silence echoed off the walls of the church, her mother's loud sobs and the comforting murmurs that followed the only indication people congregated in the room at all. The twins were with her, each of her hands clasped in one of theirs, faces too young to be weathered by grief.

People came up to Michonne, offered her their condolences, hugged her, and it all passed through her, as insubstantial as air. They were sorry, they said. Sorry for what? He was a good man, they said, but what was goodness in the face of death?

She'd been a robot planning the funeral, the rest of the family too riddled with grief to do more than put on black clothes and drag themselves to church. She'd picked out the casket, the flowers, set the date and time, as if any of it mattered. Her father. Was _dead_.

Someone gently squeezed her shoulder. "The eulogy."

Michonne tore her eyes away from the casket to see everyone taking their seats. "Ok." Her voice returned to her disjointed and faint, as if it didn't belong to her at all.

"Do you need me to stand here with you?" Andre asked. The tears on his cheeks had yet to dry, but he didn't wipe them away.

She caressed his face, wiping his tears with her thumb. "No, I'll be fine."

He looked doubtful, but left, finding a place between her mother and Anele.

Michonne unfolded the crinkled paper in her hand, and began to read. "Theodore Grey was a beloved husband and father, a standard of character, and to me, his daughter, a true force of good."

She felt herself building to tears, so she shut her eyes, counted to five in her head, and continued.

"I have, like many of you, admired him my entire life. He showed me what love looked like, what it could be if you nurtured it. He never had to tell you he loved you, because you knew. To be loved by my father was to be loved deeply, no judgements allowed."

"He showed that love to mother. I don't think I've ever seen a man love a woman as much as he loved her. He showed that love to my sisters, and it's why they're who they are today. And he showed that love to me."

She looked up again, tilting her head up to stem the flow of tears. "I don't know how I got be so...fortunate to have a father like him. He would tell me that when he and my Mother were trying to conceive, and nothing happened, he'd go to church and pray every day, and that I am here today because of those prayers."

"His life was full of hardships, but with amazing strength of spirit, her persevered, and it paid off. He did everything in this life to the fullest, and encouraged us to do the same. And I hope he'll be watching over us, and we'll feel his love, and it will stay with us for the rest of our lives."

When she looked up again, most people had their heads bowed, to meditate on the words, or pray, or quietly cry. Michonne didn't even see Rick till' their eyes connected from across the room. His eyes weren't dry either, but they stayed on hers, unyielding, as if to say, _I'm here._


	16. Let's Remember to Forget

Theodore Grey had always been something of a role model to Rick. He was always a beacon of positivity and light, and it seemed that no matter what happened, nothing would deter him from that path of fulfillment. There was something so magnetic about that persona. It was something Rick admired about him, and would admire for years to come.

He listened to the verses, prayed to a God he didn't believe in, watched several people share their stories about Teddy – he remained bright and warm in each one, and Rick could see his mark in each and every one of the people who spoke.

And then it was time to take the casket outside, to the gravesite. Rick followed the back of Michonne's head, wanting to give her the space she needed, but wanting to be there with her as she went through the motions.

At last, when the casket was lowered into the deep, damp, earth, laid to eternal rest, the crowd dispersed one by one, but for the Grey's. Michonne had her head on Andre's shoulder, but lifted it when Rick neared.

He didn't say anything as he took her into his arms and held her there.

He could feel how tired she was in every hard line of her body, the way she pressed her weight into him, like he was holding pieces of her instead of a full person.

"I couldn't believe it," Rick said, when they'd finally pulled away. "I still have this picture of your Dad in my head, forever smiling and just…immortalized."

Her weary face transformed into a bitter smile. "It still doesn't feel real. I didn't even – "

When she looked at him again, it was as if realization struck her out of the blue. "I never s-said – I never told him goodbye."

A deep, feral sob tore through her chest, and then another in quick succession. And then she was crying, really crying for the first time since her father died. She'd been keeping it together for everyone else's sake, but now she was fracturing, and all Rick could do was watch as the pieces fell apart.

* * *

Rick ended up taking Michonne. Andre, forever sensitive to his mothers moods, knew needed to be alone with her best friend, and so hung back with the family while Rick took her to eat. If anyone else offered, Michonne would have declined, but with Rick everything was…better. Less empty. He wasn't hovering over her, watching for an inevitable breakdown, but he was careful in the most sensitive way. She felt safe. She could breathe easier, and he felt comforted by the fact.

They ended up at Hershel's, picking a booth in the very back, the one they reserved for impromptu crying sessions and intense conversations when they were kids. Michonne slumped in her seat, unpinning her tight bun and letting the locs spill around her shoulders. Rick sat across from her, tentatively running his thumb across her knuckles. He wouldn't make her talk, but since he was there, the words bubbled out anyways.

"A heart attack," she said gravely. "In the van."

Rick recalled Michonne telling him – a while ago – about her father's fragile heart conditions, but hadn't realized how grave they were till…that very day, actually. Part of it was that Theodore kept up such a good front, always brushing off concern and help when he needed it the most.

Michonne picked at the frayed edges of the menu. "Mom said she woke up and found him like that. It happened at night, while everyone else slept. She just woke up and…there was no pulse."

Rick tried to imagine the scene, couldn't, and so swallowed back the image. He skipped around what to say. What could he say to her that would make her feel better? Not pitied, she'd probably had enough of that for a day, but better, at least for a moment.

The answer was actually all around him, in the diner, the town, between the two of them. "Remember when he'd bring us here after school for ice-cream?"

She looked at him, unsure what state dredging those memories up would leave her in. Michonne nodded.

Rick continued, caught up in the memory now. "Chocolate and strawberry for me, banana and vanilla for you, French vanilla for Dad, and then we'd race to see who could finish theirs the fastest."

Which in retrospect was Theodore's clever ploy to get them to finish faster. And then he'd tire them out at the park, so that when it was time to come home they'd have no choice but to knock out.

"And when we'd watch him play poker," she put in. "He'd win almost every time. I think his poker games were the source of half our incomes."

Rick laughed. "Remember when he'd come up with stories, pluck them right out of the blue? We'd sit for hours just listening to him tell some bizarre, off-the-wall story."

"It would be hours when you egged him on," she reminded him. She shook her head. "You and Dad. You two would talk my head off for _hours_."

They both grinned, the memories, the happy moment taking root and settling. "I miss him."

"Me, too."

His round face, perpetual laugh lines etched by his smile, wide eyes and wider grin.

"I keep thinking," she said, on the edge of something she never thought she'd confess out loud. "What if I'd done more? I know I couldn't have stopped his death but…what if I'd been there more?"

"You can't fall down that hole." He'd seen it so many times at the hospital, people spinning the blames on themselves when whoever they loved passed, convinced there was something they could have done.

Michonne bit her lip. "He missed us so much. He would call me every day at work. I don't think I realized how much he needed us."

"Michonne, look at me."

She did, a single tear spilling down her cheek.

Rick poured every ounce of conviction into his words. "It wasn't. Your. Fault."

She believed him; of course she believed him.

They shared a plate of tater tots between the two of them. Michonne prodded him about his work life, and of course, Carl.

"He misses you," Rick told her. "Andre, too."

Michonne cracked a smile. Andre would be ecstatic to hear that. Carl always trailed him like a shadow whenever he visited, asking about his gadgets and video games, which Andre expressed annoyance to, but secretly, he liked having someone looking up to him.

When they got to Michonne's house, loud music could be heard from the outside, reverberating off the walls. They exchanged mutual looks of confusion. Rick fought the urge to shove her behind him and enter the house first, just in case.

Upon entering, all the lights were on. Michonne flicked them off as they went. Mike, wearing nothing but jeans and a tank top, lounged on their leather couch, a cigarette tucked between his lips and several bottles of alcohol sitting at his leisure on the table.

"Michonne!" he hollered, rearing upwards. He stumbled, and with a sick twist of his gut, Rick registered that he was completely inebriated. "Where have you been, baby?"

Michonne grabbed the remote, cutting the music to a stop. "Mike, _what_ are you doing?"

He ignored her, looking over her shoulder at Rick. "Grimes? The hell you doin' here?"

"You're drunk." Michonne said, with disgust – and expectancy, Rick noticed with alarm.

"People" – he hiccuped – "People deal with these things in different ways, Chonne."

She pinched the bridge of her nose before turning to Rick, using a gentler, more apologetic voice. "You can take your stuff upstairs. I'll be there in a second."

Rick didn't move a muscle, but the ones in his jaw were working overtime as he stared down Mike in his pathetic, drunken state. "Are you serious right now?"

Mike blinked. For as long as he'd known Rick, Michonne's long-time friend had never come on so strong. "What was that?"

Rick squinted at him, but there was nothing scrutinizing about it. It was downright intimidating. "Your wife," he emphasized the word wife, so that Mike could gauge the full weight of this. "Spent the majority of the day mourning her father, your father-in-law, which, you decided to skip because you had something so much more important to do, right? Don't answer that, it's rhetorical, but I'm sure that went right over your head."

Mike came closer. "You don't know shit."

"Enough," Michonne said, intercepting whatever wouldn't be going down in her living room. "That's it."

Rick muttered under his breath, turning on his heel to return to the car and get his things. Mike's only response was to drop back onto the sofa, reaching for another bottle.

* * *

Rick had just finished brushing his teeth when Michonne entered the room, leaning cautiously against the frame with her hands behind her back. "I couldn't sleep."

He nodded. He couldn't sleep either, but he doubted his reasons were the same as hers. "Me either."

"He left this," Michonne bought out a flask, shaking it. "It's still full."

"You can't sleep, so you're gonna drink. Sounds about right."

"It's truly the next best thing."

He muted the TV. She crawled into bed with him. They did this all the time when they were kids – one or the other sneaking into bed, and even now there was something comforting about it, even as full grown adults. Michonne took the first swig, and offered it to him, snuggling closer.

"When did you stop wearing your wedding ring?" He asked, eyes on her slender, ring less left hand.

Michonne turned her hand over, as if she'd just noticed and felt naked without it. "A year ago. Remember Thanksgiving?"

He did. He and Carl had come down for the holiday, and Mike and Michonne had been fraught the entirety of it. "That around the time you stopped lovin' him, too?"

"I can't chart that. The years just blurred together. All I know is that I woke up one day…and I couldn't look at my husband the same way."

He knew that feeling. It'd been the same thing with Lori. In some ways, you couldn't anticipate it. Falling out of love with someone was just as turbulent and confusing as falling in love with them. He'd learned that the hard way. Now she did, too.

"When did he start…you know."

She sighed. "A while ago. It was pretty harmless at first – wine when he'd come home from work. And then it changed; alcohol when he was stressed, happy, and then for the hell of it. And then it became," the flask paused in front of her lips. "Habit."

He studied her in the dark, the changing images on the screen turning her skin dynamic. Or maybe that was whatever it was in the flask kicking in. He evaluated her expression, trying to gauge what stage of grief she was in.

"Figures," she said bitterly. "I lose my Dad to a heart attack, and now I might lose Mike to alcohol poisoning."

"Hey," he chastised. "This is not your fault. Your Dad, Mike – none of it is your fault."

"You can't use that for this," she said, her voice taking on some strange quality. "If I'd spoken to Mike instead of letting him drink himself into a stupor, we wouldn't be in this position. Our marriage wouldn't be in this position."

"Mike is a grown ass man, who makes his own grown- ass, dumb-ass decisions. Stop putting this on yourself."

She bit her tongue, reaching for the flask again, but this time Rick kept it firm in his grip. Michonne looked him in the eye, trying to pry his fingers apart, and when she did, he laced their fingers together. The gesture made her forget about the flask, about Mike, and even the painful thump of her heart.

The air was charged. Somehow, their lips met.

It surprised both of them. It was barely a kiss. Their lips grazed together, but just that small contact was enough to open the wound. Both emboldened by the liquor, they kissed again.

The first thing that sprung into Rick's head was that her lips were soft. Achingly soft, and mixed with the whiskey, moved like delectable poison against his. The second was that he was kissing Michonne, _Michonne was kissing him_ , and it took him back to that night several years ago, before her sudden tumble put everything on pause.

Without warning, he parted her lips and snuck his tongue inside so that he could taste her. Mints, liquor, Michonne. If this was what he'd been missing out on, he'd been dead wrong to let it slip through his grasp.

Michonne felt like she was in a trance. There were voices screaming at her to stop, because her husband slept in the room above them, and because this was _Rick_. Another more potent part of her felt like her entire being was being set alight, and Rick himself was the match.

She mounted him, straddling his waist, her fingers moving to twine themselves in his hair. His hands roamed down her waist, under her silky blouse, so thin that he could feel all of her beneath his hungry fingertips. She moaned quietly, sending a shiver down his spine, a low growl from his throat.

Michonne didn't know how, but she ended up on her back, with Rick on top of her. She felt herself wanting him, and she didn't know if it was her sadness or desire that dictated that. All she knew was that she needed to feel something, and she needed her clothes off five minutes ago.

Their kisses slowed to a feverish pace, which gave his jumbling thoughts time to sepearete themselves from carnal to moral.

Carnal, Michonne was so soft beneath him, her legs locked around his waist, the clothes between them the only barrier. If he had allowed himself think of a second kiss, he never imagined it frenzied. He wanted to take his time with her in a way he never had, let the burn smolder, let the payoff be worth it. He wanted them both to be sober for it, aware of every moment, every hitch of breath, every content little sigh.

Moral, she'd had a day. She'd seen her father buried six feet under, cried more than she had in a long time, realized, probably not for the first time, her marriage was in danger. And though he hated to admit it to himself, Rick was filling some void for her. And though he hated to think it, and Mike didn't deserve her, she was married.

He pulled away abruptly. "We can't."

Michonne panted. Her camisole had ridden up all the way to her stomach, and if he'd pulled it up any further she'd be topless. She went slack, raking her fingers through her hair. "Oh, no. No no no no no. Shit, I'm sorry. I am so sorry,"

"I am too," he said, wanting to touch her, but retracting his hand when he knew it would have the opposite effect. "We shouldn't – I shouldn't have done that." Making out was such a weird thing for them to be apologizing profusely for, but there they were.

She got up, shaking her head and barely able to look him in the eye. "We're drunk."

"You've had a day. You're vulnerable."

"It was a mistake." She still didn't look at him, while he tried not to let his eyes linger on the strap that slipped off her shoulder.

Rick winced at that word – mistake. Twice in a row. They were going for some kind of record then.

"Rick," she said gently, tugging the strap up. "We should talk about this."

Talk about what? She was married, he wanted her, tragedy, roll credits. "Michonne…I don't – " He rubbed his eyes. "There's nothing to talk about. It was a mistake."

Her lips still thrummed from their kiss. Her stomach felt as if it were being rung. He wasn't looking at her, and she didn't want to lose him.

Michonne got off of the bed, reached the door, and gave him one last parting look before clicking it shut.

Rick fell back into bed, throwing his arm over his eyes, sleep the farthest thing from his mind.


	17. Fate of Free Will

After a fitful night of sleep (and less than innocent dreams about a _certain_ someone) Rick woke up groggy, disheveled, and more confused than ever. It made sense that his first thought was of Michonne, probably asleep in the warm bed she shared with her husband, deeply regretful of kissing him – a callback to the night of her eighteenth. He had to wonder if two times made it more than a coincidence, something they had to stand up and finally face – or if they were destined to spin out the torturous cycle of will-they-won't-they for the rest of their natural lives.

In the end, he came away with one conclusion. He'd rather have heartache after heartache with Michonne than steadiness with anyone else.

He had to leave, but didn't want to wake her, so he rifled through drawers in her kitchen until he found an old notepad to scribble on.

 _Didn't want to wake you so I left. Call me when you're ready to talk – about any of it._

 _Love, Rick._

He left the note on the table with her mail, where he knew she'd see it, because Michonne loved reading and organizing random papers in her vicinity.

When he turned, Mike stood at the foot of the stairs, a deer in the headlights look on his face as circled from Rick to the table and back. "Looking for something?"

Rick peeled away, feigning innocence. "Just a note for Michonne."

Mike continued to scrutinize him. "You leaving so soon?"

"I have a job," Rick said plainly. "I don't live it Atlanta anymore."

"And Michonne?"

It was hard for Rick to not feel like an asshole, standing right in front of the man whose wife had very nearly had sex with him last night.

"She has you," he said finally, trying not to let the bitterness of that seep into his voice. "Or she should."

Mike took the jab; he deserved that. "Look, I know you think you're entitled because Michonne tells you everything, but that doesn't – shouldn't extend itself to our marriage."

Rick snorted, but it was without humor. "It extended itself to me last night, whether you like it or not. I care about Michonne, this is hurting her, so yeah, it's kind of my problem."

They continued to stare each other down in some bizarre alpha power showdown, something Rick was sure Michonne would roll her eyes at. But he would be the bigger person, because Mike was clearly going through it, whatever that was. "Tell Michonne I said call me."

* * *

When Michonne woke up in the morning she felt…different. Not good different, but like she'd been rubbed raw and left sore. Yesterday's images flooded her mind – the funeral, which sent a pang through her. Andre. Her family and friends. Rick.

Rick.

She ran her thumb over her lips, remembering their sudden kiss, and what came after. Or rather, what didn't come after.

She wanted – needed to see him – so she could be sure she wasn't the only one with the strange torrent of feelings, so she could know she wasn't paranoid, or otherwise losing her mind.

Too confused and riddled with guilt, she'd ended up collapsing into a bed in one of the spare rooms. She untangled herself from the sheets and threw them off. When she reached the guest room she found it empty, the bed neatly made, as if she and Rick hadn't tousled those sheets, as if they hadn't been about to…

She padded downstairs, the smell of coffee getting denser and denser the closer she came. Mike was in the kitchen, in full work attire. He looked hungover, but his chipper disposition said otherwise.

"Good morning, baby. How you feeling?" He came over and kissed her temple. He didn't want to argue, about his drinking, about any of it. New day, clean slate, until he drank one too many, and their problems would reappear and crash over them like a deadly tidal wave.

"Not any better than yesterday," she croaked, and then cleared her throat. "Did you see Rick leave?"

Mike's back stiffened, but he shook his head. "He left before I woke up, I guess."

"Oh," she deflated. "He didn't say goodbye."

Mike shrugged. "Probably had a good reason to leave."

"Did he leave me anything?" she asked hopefully.

"Nothing," Mike said, a bit too quickly. "You want some eggs?"

Michonne sagged against the wall. Something extinguished inside of her.

"You good to work today?" Mike took a sip of coffee.

Michonne looked at him in disbelief that he would suggest it. "We buried Dad…yesterday."

"Oh, right. Sorry. You going to your Mom's to pick up Andre?"

"Yeah," she pushed off the walls. "Don't wait up for me, I think I'll be staying there for the weekend, too." She was evading guilt, she knew, and she would need to tell Mike what happened between her and Rick if she had any desire to salvage their marriage – what was left of it, anyways.

* * *

The Grey home was silent when Michonne arrived, so that she could practically hear the place breathing. She tiptoed around the kitchen, tidying up, making coffee, pouring all her sadness and frustrations into scrubbing the dishes until the water and suds were up to her elbows, submerging the sleeves of her shirt. She used to do the dishes with her father, after dinner, a bonding moment she never wanted to admit was a bonding moment. He'd wash, and pass her a dish to dry and sort into the cupboards. When he was tired they'd switch places. Sometimes their conversation were so lively it took them a good seven minutes to wash one plate. Other times, silence would suffice. Just the running water, clang of dishes, his whistling, their even breathing.

Michonne's tears dripped straight into the sink; she swiped them with the dry part of her shirt and shut the water off.

She would never hear his footsteps plunder heavily up and down those steps again. She would never wake up to his loud, off-key singing on Saturday mornings while he cleaned. She would never hear the jingling of his keys, the cadence of his voice, the wisdom and comfort of his words when she was in a rut. Never again would they wash another dish, her drying, him breathing.

A knock on the door threw her right out of her reverie. She strained her ears for Rick's signature knock, but that wasn't it.

When she opened the door, still dripping in water, Andrea stood in front of it. She looked an absolute mess, her hair thrown into a messy knot, usually vivacious eyes sunken and dull.

"I went to your house, but Mike said you were here so I – I caught a ride and I would've been here sooner but my flight got delayed and I was up all night trying to – "

Her words were cut by the wind being knocked out of her, Michonne's sopping wet hands encircling her in a hug. Andrea froze before returning the embrace, relieved. "Oh, Mich. I'm so sorry."

* * *

When Rick got to his apartment, it was to see Jessie Anderson, slumped in front of his door. For a split moment he waited for the cameras to pop out. She looked severely out of place, but her eyes lit up in earnest when she saw him. "Rick!"

"Jessie," he said dubiously, glad to see her, even if he was more than confused how she found him. "You're…here."

"I know, it's _crazy_ , but I was in Atlanta and Michonne told me to check you out in Boston. Isn't that insane?"

"Small world," Rick grunted, turning his key in pushing the door. " _Michonne_ sent you here?"

"Yeah!" She smiled widely, flashing him a set of straight, white teeth you only got from having to smile on TV all the time. Rick grinned back and gestured to the inside of his home. "Come on in."

"Anyways," she said, dropping her designer bag on his counter. "I thought I'd drop by and say hello. Nice apartment, by the way." She tapped a picture of a smiling Carl on his table. "Is this your son? Oh, Rick, he's precious."

"That's him." Rick smiled at the picture, thinking of the conversation he'd had with Carl at the airport waiting for his flight. The more he grew, the more amazed Rick was by him, and the more he thought he couldn't love him anymore than he already did, the higher the bar went.

Rick smirked at Jessie as she stood in awe at his apartment. He was sure she'd seen nicer hotel rooms, but still took the compliment for what it was.

He dialed the air conditioner off; it was freezing. "How long you in the city?"

"Oh," Jessie twirled around. "Just a few days. But it's enough."

Rick eyed her, raising a brow. "Enough for…"

Jessie looked down at her shoes; also designer. "I think you know the answer to that."

Rick averted her eyes, going to the kitchen, the clack of Jessie's trailing steps harsh and unfamiliar on his wooden floors. "Look, Jessie. This was fun when we were kids, but now…now I'm wrapped up in my job, and my son, and I – I can't do the things I used to. This morning I woke up and I swear my back cracked."

Jessie crossed her arms and pursed her lips. "What makes you think I don't want something serious? I know it's probably hard to believe, but I want something real, too."

"Even with this whole superstar lifestyle you got goin' on?"

" _Especially_ with this lifestyle. It's a cliché but it is so hard to find something authentic in this life. I play other people, and I love my job, but then I go home and I'm just…empty. I sit and read scripts all day and think about all casting agents who don't want me, all the time I might be wasting. When Michonne said your name, I don't know, I just…felt like it was a wake-up call." She shook her head. "I'm being really forward right now, sorry."

"Jessie," he felt bad, mostly because it sounded like she'd been rehearsing this for quite a while, and he was still wrapping his mind around her being in his apartment. "I…there's someone else."

Jessie balked, her face scrunching in confusion. "Oh? Michonne didn't mention that."

Oh, the sweet, stupid irony.

"That's because she doesn't know." It wasn't a lie, but it damn sure wasn't the truth.

Jessie pursed her lips. By now, she was used to rejection, but not the romantic kind – and never from Rick. "You're seeing someone else?"

Rick rubbed his jaw. "Not exactly. I…care about her. More than I probably should. Thing is, it's never the right time."

"Then maybe there is no time," she said simply, as if it were that black-and-white. "Maybe you should move on. Try something new."

He looked at her, really seeing past the star persona she'd crafted, seeing Jessie.

"I'm not asking you to marry me." She slid something towards him; a business card. "Just…take a leap of faith."

He stared at the card, rearranging the numbers on them to fit Michonne's. "Just take a leap of faith." He repeated.

Jessie nodded, slinging her purse over her shoulder. "I'm leaving tomorrow, but I'll wait. Give me an answer."

* * *

"Grandad taught me a lot about constellations," Andre pointed out the sky, tracing the configuration of stars that could've been random, could've been designed. "That one is Hercules."

Michonne followed his line of sight, easily spotting it in the mass of lights that freckled the sky. "It's beautiful."

Andre nodded, and then sighed deeply, leaning his weight into his mother. "You think he got reincarnated into a star?"

"I sure hope so," she slung her arm around him. "It's what he deserves."

"Yeah."

They got quiet, listening to the sounds of night. The day had been long and emotionally extraneous on the whole family as they sorted through Theodore's things, deciding what to keep and discard, and she had the distinct feeling it would be that way for quite some time. But for now, they could just sit and remain in the moment, sustained by the fragile strength of one another.

She thought of calling Rick, but since he'd left without so much as a note, she figured he didn't want to hear from her. She wondered, not for the first time in her life, if this was the end of them. If this really was the final straw. But the more she thought of it, the more she realized that kissing Rick hadn't felt tragic. Not for a moment. It was tragic because of the circumstances, sure, but the kiss itself felt strangely right, and a little familiar for a first kiss, as if they'd been together in a past life and were put into this one to find each other again. She didn't know what to do with that, or the guilt. Somehow, she'd become the kind of woman past Michonne would cluck her tongue at.

It was then Michonne felt the most random burst of inspiration, which she attributed to the sentimentality of stargazing with the biggest inspiration of her life. "What would you say," she mused, a brilliant smile crossing her face. "If I told you I was going to open up my very own firm?"

Andre snorted. "I'd tell you I know how much money you have in your savings account, and it ain't happening."

She chuckled, pinching him. "Not our savings, dumb-butt. The insurance money Grandad left us."

Andre looked at him mother, his mouth forming an O. "Really?"

"Really. He always supported my pipe dream, but now it doesn't have to be a pipe dream anymore."

They basked in that, the real possibility of her most treasured dream unfolding before them. She hugged him again, for the first time that day, not out of sadness, but hope.

When they turned to the sky, Andre nodded. "Grandad really must be a star, watching us right now."


	18. Congratulations

FIVE MONTHS LATER

(MOST OF WHICH WAS FILLED WITH HEALING AND CONTEMPLATING)

"Mom, I can't go without my lucky jersey."

It began as a typical day in the Grey-Anthony household. Michonne was the first up, being the last to sleep after wrestling with one of her more difficult cases the night before, and floated around the house groggy and half asleep. Andre was cranky, budding teenage hormones and the added stress of a later basketball game adding to his short temper.

Mike Anthony's life had become a comforting sort of rote. He scrolled through his texts and e-mails, rolled out of bed, took a shower, brushed his teeth, dutifully ate breakfast, and tried not to let his wife catch him staring longingly at their liquor cabinet, which she – they – kept barricaded.

As Michonne dashed up the steps after Andre, Mike dashed down, taking first pick at the mail. Glumly, he shuffled through them. Bill, junk mail, letter from Rick, bill, letter from Theodore.

Mike paused, shuffling the letters back. Rick. The letter had been sent from Paris, per the stamp and address, and felt thin. He threw a look behind his shoulder but could hear Andre and Michonne debating upstairs, and so what he did next felt relatively safe, even if it was wrong. Mike tore the letter open and read quietly to himself, his throat catching as his eyes scanned.

And processed.

When Michonne paused at the foot of the stairs, the parchment was tucked away in his coat. He hadn't had time to read it all, but what he had read was more than enough to know. He turned to her with a perfunctory smile, which she caught onto immediately. "What is it?"

Mike was grateful he had an excuse to look shifty, pulling out Teddy's letter from the stack. "Your Mom sent this, from Ghana. He must've been saving it to give to you."

At the sight of her father's name, she went quiet. Not quite sad – morose. Mike watched her turn the letter in her hands. "You want me to stay?"

"No," she took a deep, steadying breath before smiling at him. "I'll be fine. You go to work, I'll see you soon."

He nodded, moving to give her a chaste kiss, the letter in his pocket crinkling as he did.

 _Michonne,_

 _I've always wanted to go to Ghana, believe it or not. I never talked about it with you kids because I thought keeping the hope buried inside of me would somehow make it more tangible. I'm always telling y'all when you blow out your candles, keep your wishes inside your head, so that you can see them manifest._

 _Now, I wish I'd done things differently. I wish I'd gone and traveled when I could have. I don't regret you or your sisters one bit, but I do regret putting those things on hold for a life I thought I'd preferred. And now, with my house collecting dust, I'm finally pursuing what I've always wanted._

 _I know the days are tough, and the tough seems endless, but you are doing such a good job. You have grown up to be the woman we've envisioned you to be – strong, industrial, a caring wife, a wonderful mother. I couldn't be prouder of you._

 _And I know I say this all the time, and you must be sick of it, but hold fast to your dreams. I know I'll see that law firm one day. If anyone can do it, it's Michonne Grey._

 _Love, your old man._

* * *

Mike spend a majority of his day debating the letter.

He let it sit on the passenger seat of his car to guilt him, much like the discarded bottles of alcohol in the backseat of his car Michonne didn't know about, but which he could never rid himself of. He let it sit on his office desk, taunting him out of getting work done.

Rick and Michonne had always been close. Too close to simply be best friends, some would say. Michonne used to say it was amazing how many people couldn't conceive two members of the opposite sex engaging in a purely platonic relationship, but that had long since stopped being the case for her and Rick. He'd never noticed it before – perhaps he'd been blocking it out – but the day of Teddy's funeral proved to be a turning point in how he perceived the two of them to be.

There existed a caring, an intimacy between the two, that made his marriage with Michonne look flimsy in comparison. And then Michonne told him about the kiss, confirming he hadn't imagined the tension, either.

Terry clapped him on the back. "We goin' out for drinks tonight. You comin'?"

"Can't," Mike said, gesturing to his desk. "Heavy load today."

Terry frowned. "Heavy load, or my-wife-is-gon-kill-me-if-I-come-home-smelling-like-beer? C'mon, man. I love Mich but how long you gon' let her dictate your drinking habits?"

Mike sucked his teeth. "She is not _dictating_ anything. We made this decision together, as a unit, for the betterment of our marriage."

"Yeah, yeah," Terry rubbed his stubble. "You look like you could use a lil' something, though. You're looking kind of stressed there."

Mike shrugged, trying to appease him by making himself seem nonchalant. "The daily hustle."

Terry clapped him on the back on his way out, swinging his coat over a shoulder. "I'm at the bar if you change your mind."

Mike dug into his work, the letter and what it meant taking a focal point in the periphery of his mind. In the end, he came to two conclusions.

1) He would never let Michonne see this letter.

If he followed through with one, he would go back on his vows, effectively screwing their marriage over.

In the end, he did take Terry up on that drink.

* * *

Rick watched as Jessie sashayed across the stage, bellowing out a forceful melody as she moved, the performance building to a crescendo that had the theater poised on the edge of their seats. After, they'd all stand up and erupt into an ovation that Jessie would bask in, finding the satisfaction she never did with TV.

And Rick would smile and keep a hand on the small of her back, dodging zealous fans and ignoring interview questions. If he was lucky they could escape the flood of cameras and barrage of paparazzi's, and Rick would pretend to be ok with it. He loved Jessie, or so he told himself, repeating the phrase over and over like a mantra.

But he still woke up every day seeing blood. Not in the gory sense. Blood he could contain. Blood, organs, a scalpel in his hands, the hum of machines, the rustle of tools, a heart monitor. For him, performances happened in the operating room. Saving lives was his greatest satisfaction.

He liked his internship. He loved Paris. He loved taking Carl to see the Eiffel tower. He loved the way his street always smelled like fresh bread, and the breathtaking skyline at night, but at times he felt like an imposter masquerading in his own life. Broadway every night with Jessie wasn't his life. And Jessie, comfortable, amicable, as she was, was not the person he wanted to sleep next to and wake up beside every day for the rest of his life.

He'd written her that letter more than a month ago, but never got the call that would tell him yes, she felt the same way. When he called her there was no answer, just a clipped voicemail greeting that sounded more dismissive that accommodating. He'd fallen in love in the cruelest way possible; miles away and brutally unrequited.

His final, desperate attempt had been a text message, asking her if she was really, truly happy.

' _There aren't a lot of things I've gotten righ_ t,' she'd written back. ' _But this family is one of the good things I have done_.'

So he resigned himself to theater nights and Jessie's industry friends, convinced love was compromise and Jessie was the closest person he'd ever find for the real deal. And he let Michonne go on with the life and people she'd chosen, because it was all he could do when he loved her.

* * *

Mike came home and dropped several empty bottles of liquor onto the living room table. She hadn't noticed when he swept into the room, but startled when they clattered onto her desk.

Michonne eased her MacBook shut, meeting his eyes uneasily.

"This," Mike said without preamble, holding up a flask. "Is from a few months ago."

He picked up a bottle of whiskey. "This is from that argument we had. I drank it all in the car."

He tossed it down. Michonne flinched.

"Andre was there when I bought this," he picked up a beer bottle. "I made him promise not to tell you."

"Mike."

"H-hold up," he sniffed. "I'm not done."

"Yes, you are," she got up. "You can be remorseful all you want, but we're not going back. We can get clean again."

"Michonne, listen to yourself," he begged. " _We_ are not the problem. _I_ am an alcoholic. I need help."

"And I'm your _wife_ ," she stared into his eyes. "W-we took vows. We made promises – "

"That neither of us could keep." he finished, knowing she knew exactly what he was talking about. "Tell me why you haven't left me yet. And none of that 'Because I love you' bullshit."

"But I do."

"Then how come it feels like obligation, huh? How come it feels like I'm a stranger in my own fucking home?"

Michonne remembered echoing the same words to Rick – about obligation, and here she was. She bit the inside of her cheek.

Mike kicked her desk. "It's bullshit!" He thundered. "I don't want to be this person. It's not the life I want, for us, and for – for our son."

"I don't know what else to do," she whispered. "I'm trying, Mike. I'm trying to be there for you. Tell me what it is that we're doing wrong here?"

They were silent for a long moment before Mike maneuvered around the table. He took her face between his hands, and for a second she thought he'd kiss her. Instead he sighed. Now that she was closer to him, she could make out the sunken eyes and dark circles. Had he been deteriorating in front of her this whole time, and she was too absorbed in her own affairs to notice.

"I haven't been completely honest with you," Mike said. "I've slept with other people."

Michonne recoiled as if he'd struck her. "You're saying that to hurt me."

Mike ran a hand over his mouth. "I need you to know that they weren't affairs. The woman I slept with weren't more than passing acquaintances to me."

Was that supposed to somehow make it better?

He reached for her, she flinched, a reversal of where they'd been just minutes before.

"The first time was after the funeral, after you told me about Rick."

She swallowed roughly, angry tears streaking her face. "You said you could let it go."

"I know what I said. I also know that I went out and slept with someone else after, rendering that statement ineffective."

She pushed past him, too disgusted to look at him any longer. "Don't patronize me. I apologized for what I did. I tried to move on."

"If Rick hadn't left, would you feel the same way?"

She caught something in his voice, pausing in her tracks. When had Rick become the third person in their relationship? How long had he been an unspoken factor?

When she spoke again, her voice was even. Callous, which was more than he deserved. "I need you to leave."

It was what she should've told him a long time ago. That was at least something they could agree on.

"Take all your stuff and find somewhere else to be, because it won't be here, with this family. I know some part of you is hurting, terribly, but you hurt me, badly. So I need you to go."

She turned, her eyes landing on the empty bottles. Mike nodded. "I understand."

Her heart felt as if it were being wrenched. He wasn't fighting for them, for her. She wouldn't accept it anyways, but he'd given up. "Just…go."

There was something satisfactory about the end of her marriage. Not joyful, not satisfactory, but the relief that swept over her shoulders was like a breath of new fresh air. Even as the remnants of her love for Mike withered away – as it had been for months – it was like something was being destroyed for something better. This pain, this anger, this anguish, all felt necessary, and even welcomed.

* * *

She whisked Andre away to her mother's house, explaining as much as she could in the best way she knew how. Andre was solemn, but she suspected he'd known what had been building for months, even when both of his parents foolishly avoided it. That broke her heart more than Mike ever could, that her son had been suffering silently and would likely go through the ringer with their inevitable divorce.

She spent the entire day throwing Mike's things into boxes, not trying to erase his presence, but wanting most of his shit out of her house. His office was the hardest to declutter. There was one droor in particular Michonne needed a crowbar for, wrenching until it gave open.

Something fluttered out from beneath it. Michonne was fully prepared to shove it into the box until she recognized the familiar scrawl, and paused.

Still on her knees, Michonne turned it from front to back. It was from Paris, from Rick, dated from a few months ago, but she'd never seen it before. And what was it doing in Mike's drawer?

Silently, she read.

 _My line of work leaves little mistakes to be made._

 _One casual mistake is the difference between life and death. One twitch during surgery can throw the entire operation off-kilter, and so I've been careful, and sure. There's no room to idle in medicine. Idleness increases mistakes, and mistakes often lead to death. You'd think I'd be better equipped at being deliberate._

 _Thing is, I love you. I'm in love with you. There hasn't been a day in the past fifteen years the thought of you and I together hasn't crossed my mind._

 _I know you still love Mike but you deserve better. You deserve happiness, and love through your crappy days, and someone who knows you like the back of their hand._

 _I don't know if you and I were meant to be, but I do know I don't want to waste another second wondering. I just want you, and there's nothing stopping us but ourselves, and all the things that really don't matter._

 _Call me if you feel the same. Tell me this isn't just me._

 _Love, Rick_

The letter shook slightly in Michonne's trembling grip. She read the words over and over, to make sure she hadn't imagined them, but they were there, plain as day, and they rocked deep in her chest, resonating with the part of her that had always been there, but that she'd never allowed herself to recognize. It opened like a well, flooding her.

She rushed to her office and dove straight for her phone. It rang several times, but there was no answer. She then moved to her MacBook, shooting skype open and typing furiously into the message box.

M: Rick? Are you there?

She waited several agonizing seconds.

R: Yeah

M: Can we talk?

R: I don't think we should…

M: Rick, you're being weird. Please talk to me.

There was no answer, only a request to video Skype. Michonne barely had time to straighten herself out before accepting.

Jessie's face flooded the screen.

Jessie Anderson. She grinned while Michonne bit back her shock long enough to dole out something like a greeting.

"Hey you," Jessie squealed, tucking her short blonde hair behind her ears. "Just the woman I wanted to see."

"Jessie," Michonne said meekly. "You're there? With Rick?"

"Rick went out to get food with Carl. We have a lot to celebrate because…" She held up her left hand, and on her ring finger, a diamond ring glittered. "WE'RE GETTING MARRIED!"

Michonne's heart plummeted at the same time she forced a smile on her face. "Oh my God, Jessie, that's great."

"I know, I know. Ugh, I'm so excited!" She placed a hand over her heart, the diamond flashing. "It was so sudden, you know? Rick's such a natural, he's always suggesting we go for romantic walks and leaving beautiful notes – "

"He does, doesn't he?"

"And we were on a ferry boat yesterday, and he got down on one knee and popped the question! It was so beautiful, I can't stop gushing about it."

Michonne bit the inside of her cheek, mostly to keep herself from screaming. "That's...amazing."

"And it's all because of you, Michonne." Jessie looked at her, eyes full of gratitude. "If you hadn't led me here this would've never happened."

She nodded mutely, the weight of that having two entirely different meanings to each of them.

"Anyways," Jessie clapped her hands together. "The wedding is soon, since I'll be filming in two months, and Rick and I thought it's only appropriate that you be the best woman. You led us here, you're his best friend, it's perfect. Do you accept?"

She smiled weakly. "Course."

"Perfect! I'll have my assistant e-mail you. Rick'll be here soon, do you want me to tell him anything?"

Michonne grit her teeth. She was going to spend the rest of her life tasting this regret. "Tell Rick I said congratulations."


	19. Celebration Blues, Part Two

"So you find out Mike has been drinking behind your back, cheated on you, left him, found a letter in which Rick divulges his lifelong feelings for you, which Mike _also_ hid, only to find out Rick is engaged to be married to Jessie," Andrea paused to collect breath. "All within the span of two days."

Michonne glowered into her bottle of wine. "I need more of this."

"Mich, sometimes I envy your life," Andrea scoffed, shaking her head. "This is not one of those times."

"He proposed to her on a ferry under the stars," Michonne curled up on her couch, drawing her knees to her chest. "It was so beautiful."

"I'm sure it wasn't that great."

"The video is on YouTube." She'd endured slight torture the night before watching it on a loop, while guzzling down generous scoops of pecan butter ice-cream.

Rick's letter was a crumpled mess before them, having been dissected and analyzed and passed between the two, but all of his words, however true they may be, stood null in the face of one thing: Jessie and Rick's wedding date looming on the horizon.

"What are you going to do about this?" Andrea asked, raking her fingers through her hair.

"What _can_ I do? He wrote that letter months ago. It's not like he'll jilt her."

"Oh, no. Don't start with that 'maybe-he-doesn't-love-me crap. We read the same letter. The man has been in love with you for years, plural. I doubt a few more months of silence did damage."

"Well it obviously _did_ , since he's planning to marry her. He never got that call." She pressed the heels of her hand into her eyes. "God, he thinks I rejected him. All this _time_."

The corners of Andrea's lips curled in a frown. "It's not your fault you didn't get the letter on time."

That would be Mike, who she didn't even want to call – his was the last voice she wanted to hear, especially in what would undoubtedly spiral into a fight she didn't want to have.

"None of this had to happen," Michonne said, her voice strained. "Not the letter, fine. But all these years of silence and longing, I should've said something. I shouldn't have buried the possibility of us like…like we didn't have a chance."

"Wait, wait," Andrea pinched the bridge of her nose. "So you knew and you never said anything?"

"I knew there were feelings," she gnawed her lip. "On both sides. But I also didn't know if I would ever act on them." And it cost them. Both of them. Dearly.

Andrea shook her head, trying and failing to grasp what Michonne meant. "So you love him, and he loves you, but you never went for it because…?"

"Hypothetical," Michonne said, releasing a harsh, tired breath. "Rick is…he is so important to me. If we got together, and somehow fell out, we could never go back. I could lose him forever."

Andrea blinked. "But how could you know that if you never try?"

Rick had posed the same question in his letter.

"There's no point in agonizing over it," Michonne gave a subdued shake of her head. "He at least deserves to know that I thought of it, too. That this wasn't one sided."

Andrea followed Michonne as she pitched up to her feet. "And how are you going to tell him that?"

"I'm going to make a toast."

As promised, Jessie wasted no time flinging herself into wedding plans, sending Michonne detailed lists and instructions regarding the ceremony. She was being obnoxiously meticulous, but had faltered on a crucial detail: Rick didn't like lilies, because they reminded him of his late Grandfather. His favorite flowers were hydrangeas, specifically blue ones. Michonne corrected the detail in her reply back to Jessie.

Jessie's reply had been curt. "Of course. Must be wedding brain."

The truth was, she didn't know that, because Rick had never mentioned it to her. She brushed it off as unimportant, but obviously it was important enough if Michonne had thought to mention it. Such a small, insignificant thing, grated on her enough to bring it up.

"You never told me your favorite flowers were hydrangeas." She said the words quietly over dinner, though there was nothing casual about the inquiry.

Rick was caught off-guard by the question, his brows notching together. "It was never important."

Jessie speared her steak. "So I can keep the lilies and boot the hydrangeas?"

Michonne. She was the only person who knew of his aversion to the flowers, to the extent where he could barely stand to be around them. The lengthy pause after the question yielded the clear answer.

Rick and Michonne never spoke directly. All of their messages were relayed through Jessie, and never, ever conveyed what either of them really needed, wanted to say.

Meanwhile, Michonne had been perfecting her speech, hoping it said everything she meant it to while still being within the appropriate parameters for simply a best woman. She wasn't quite sure how she could accomplish one without setting the other short.

These days all she could do was imagine a life with Rick, the absurd fantasies enticing her now that he was on the precipice of starting one with Jessie. It was all her mind could entertain. Waking up and doing mundane things that seemed unimportant, but they secretly lived for it. Andre playing an Xbox game while Carl looked on in slight reverence. Not having to worry if the next conversation would be the breaking point. Spending her life with someone she genuinely enjoyed being with, on the groundwork of friendship and love, sounded like everything she'd ever wanted.

The date arrived, and she Andre, Andrea, and Kayla – who Andre insisted on taking, and who insisted on going – piled into a cab, headed straight for the airport.

Cramped in the backseat with her godson, Andrea smirked at Andre and Kayla, siting shoulder to shoulder, making it a point not to brush up against one another. "What's this?"

Michonne threw them a cursory glance. "Wherever Andre goes, Kayla goes and vice versa," she explained hastily from the passenger seat, frustrated now that their cab was in the thick of traffic. "Her parents are ok with it, and the college Kayla wants to attend is close by anyways, so she wants to see it in person."

Andrea grinned wide, jutting her chin at them. "So you two are a thing?"

Both Andre and Kayla's faces contorted in equal measures of disgust and rote annoyance. "Gross. We're just friends."

"Oh," Andrea said flatly, sitting back and tugging her sunglasses over her eyes. "I'm sure that won't be a problem in a few years' time."

Their problems didn't end with traffic. When they finally arrived at the airport, already off schedule, it was to find their flight had been delayed for at least another hour. They spent most of the time futilely arguing with the TA's, making calls to herald their tardiness, and then scrambling to get on the plane.

It was only on the plane, buzzing in her seat, that Michonne realized she was incapable of relaxing. She was thrumming with nerves.

When at last they arrived in Boston, it was to Dale, one of Rick's friends, shoving a dress at Michonne. "You're missing the first twenty minutes. You'll all have to get ready at the gas station."

The dress, a creamy, strapless thing, at least wasn't ugly.

Andrea climbed into the driver's seat of the van while Dale appraised her. "And who the hell are you?"

"Andrea Harrison," she said matter-of-factly, sizing him up. "And I'm driving. Got a problem?"

Dale's eyes softened. "Would you like to, I don't know, go out sometime?"

Michonne looked between them, incredulous. "We're doing this right _now_? Right at this moment?"

They took turns shoving on their clothes in the cramped quarters of the gas station restroom. Andrea and Michonne had to share the mirror, fumbling and fidgeting to get better looks at themselves, pinning hairs into place and fastening dresses, but managed to emerge unruffled. Michonne did the bulk of her make-up during red lights. In the end, they were as put together as they could possibly be in such a short amount of time.

Andrea gave her friend a sympathetic look as they neared the gates of the church, offering up a dim smile. "You ready?"

Michonne tucked an errant loc away. "Ready as I'll ever be."

They snuck in quietly through a side-entrance, more than a few heads swiveling in their direction at the slight disturbance. Dale ushered them to seats in the middle, though Michonne didn't miss the way he made sure Andrea was seated right beside him.

Once seated, warmth erupted in the pit of her stomach when she saw Rick was already looking at her, leveling a gaze that didn't match the atmosphere of the rest of the wedding. He ducked his head in a slight, nearly imperceptible nod, a thank you.

The pastor proceeded with standard vows. The words 'I do' flew past Jessie's lips before the sentence finished leaving the pastor's mouth.

For a moment, a split second of time, Michonne thought she saw a flicker of regret, a sliver of hesitancy in the eyes she knew so well – or thought she did.

But then he spoke the two words with such a flourish, it was like a thousand knives splintered her heart.

They kissed to thunderous applause, and Michonne had to turn her eyes skyward to keep fresh tears at bay. The elderly woman beside her squeezed her shoulder with a wizened hand. "It's ok to cry! Weddings are so beautiful!"

Deftly, Michonne nodded. If only she knew.

She was the last to stand, clapping politely, and the last to follow the brigade trailing Rick and Jessie outside. She paused at the edge of the last pew, riveted in the uncertainty that she'd make it through the rest of the night, let alone deliver an entire toast.

She felt a brush at her shoulder, and suddenly Rick's mother was beside her. "Ruth."

Ruth Grimes' smile crinkled with warmth, the laugh lines on her face taut with the movement. "Michonne. I'm glad you could make it."

They embraced, some of the anxiousness dissipating from her stomach. Then again, Ruth always had a calming effect on everyone she came in contact with, almost like a blanket of warmth and security she draped around your shoulders.

"I knew you wouldn't miss this," Ruth said. "Even if he does behave like such a stranger sometimes. And marries women on a whim."

Michonne caught the uneasiness in her voice. "A whim?"

Ruth's mouth tightened, almost as if she hadn't anticipated letting that slip. "It was so sudden. One minute he was telling me he didn't know if he ever would marry, the next he was calling me to tell me he bought a ring. I always thought…" She threw a sideways glance at Michonne, shaking her head. "Never mind."

"Thought what?"

Ruth smiled, maybe a little ruefully. "Some part of me always thought he'd end up with you. I know it's silly, but when you two were younger, he'd talk about it sometimes."

Her breath snagged. "You two would talk a-about us? Together?"

Ruth nodded. "I remember this one night – I think it was the morning after your eighteenth birthday. He asked me if it was worth going after something you were scared to pursue."

Her eighteenth birthday, much of which was still shrouded in mist, even more of a blot after all these years had passed. "And what'd you say?"

"I told him things usually come about when they're good and ready. Don't force it. If it was meant to happen it, it would, and if it got away from you and came back, it's yours."

Her stomach roiled. Shortly after her eighteenth she was Mike-crazed, and he'd set his sights on Jessie. Which led them here, to whatever this mess happened to be. Michonne steeled herself for the next question, hoping it wouldn't give her away. "Do you think he and Jessie are…"

She shrugged. "Good together? Maybe. Meant to be? Who can ever tell? I've been winging this thing with his father, so I'm not the best person to ask. Time will tell – it always does."

The crowd had dispersed to the reception hall, trails of rice and flowers strewn on the floor in their wake. Ruth smoothed the creases in her dress down, offering her arm to be looped with Michonne's. "Shall we?"

The hall was stunning. Above them, a domed ceiling that arched high above, the chandelier glittering as if it were the sun. Circular tables draped with silken cloth, placeholder names on each plate. Each one adorned with bushels of blue hydrangeas.

Michonne settled into her seat, adjacent to Rick's table a few feet down. He was preoccupied by the people around him, never once glancing in her direction. In turn, she distracted herself with other people – their old friends, scores of Rick's outer family, new people to be acquainted with.

Rick had made it a point to stick by Jessie's side. If he ended up within Michonne's vicinity he wasn't sure what would happen, but he was sure it would push wedding propriety to its edge. In brief moments – very, very brief – their eyes would lock, and those moments were charged beyond belief. Some part of him found it slightly masochistic he'd invited her, the woman he loved, to the wedding of the woman he'd settled for.

After mingling, photos, and cake-cutting, it was time for toasts. Rick watched Michonne stand – she looked a little out of sorts, but she was beautiful, as she'd always been – and for the first time that day, look directly into his eyes.

Michonne waved, a little shyly, but the crowd was receptive and expectant. "For those of you I haven't met yet, I'm Michonne Grey. Rick and I have been friends for a stunning amount of time. Twenty-eight years, to be exact."

"I want to start by thanking everyone for coming out on such short notice, but the fact that you're all here means you mean something to Jessie, and to Rick, and anyone who's special to Rick is special to me."

"This whole set-up is gorgeous," Michonne gestured widely. "And a true labor of love to any and everyone who helped make it possible."

Finally, her eyes settled on the crowd. "The Rick we all know and love is one I'm quite familiar with. I should know, after all. I've seen him through training wheels and lost teeth and bad acne that has, thankfully, gone away."

Chuckles sprinkled around the room. Rick's mouth quirked into a smile, his hand clasped in Jessie's.

"Rick and I combined were our very own sitcom," she laughed, eyes darting as she thought back. "The things we pulled ranged from cringe, to dangerous, to," she cleared her throat for emphasis. " _Slightly_ illegal."

"I remember on my eighteenth birthday, Rick and I not so wisely decided to do shots at a bar, just for the hell of it, with fake I.D's an everything. It was every teenage cliché rolled into one disastrous night. Word of caution: we caught hell _for_ it."

Laughs eddied around the hall. Rick's eyes cut to Michonne so abruptly her breath snagged, went uneven under his piercing stare.

"I'm happy he has Jessie now," she said, trying to keep her voice neutral. Any more would sound forced, and anything less was contempt. "To adventure, to spend a lifetime with."

A slight flush crept up Jessie's neck, and she nudged Rick. He gave her a small smile

"Marriage," she said. "Stripped of its governmental purpose and general hardships and in its most lustrous, romanticized form, is an agreement between two people to choose each other over and over again, ideally until death."

"Love," she looked right into Rick's eyes as she said the word, and he leveled that look, and for a heartbeat the room constricted and everyone and everything in it were simply background noise. "Is more impulsive. Volatile. Unpredictable. We aren't born with the knowledge or whom or what to love, but we do anyways. It's beautiful and daunting," A faint smile curled on her lips, but it was empty of light. "At times heartbreaking."

"When you love someone, the decision to choose them over and over becomes so familiar it's like breathing. Rick and I are kind of like that. I'd choose him in any life, any circumstance, over and over."

She turned thoughtful. "But I don't think we always knew that. Like any person would, we sometimes took it for granted. I think we were oblivious to what we had, to our own detriment. And our friendship faltered for it."

A hush whispered over the hall as they absorbed her words, so that she could hear every one of her uneven breaths in her ear, the thud of her heart racketing against her rib cage. Rick's clasp on Jessie's hand had grown slack, eyes frozen in thought, which both Jessie and Michonne took note of.

"And I what I need him to know is," she took a steadying breath, her voice barely carrying. "I love him. So, so much. There hasn't been a day in the past however many years I haven't loved you, Rick. I always have – and I always will."

There was no note of finality in her voice, but after a moment of strained silence, she bought her glass up, smiling shakily. "And that's why I wish you and Jessie all the luck in the world, and invite all of you in joining me in a toast to the lucky bride…and groom."

Glasses sloshed and clinked. After muttering a string of curses, Andrea downed hers and grabbed Dale's and downed it in his place.

Rick schooled his features into serenity, but he was uncoiling. His call back from Michonne had come at last – in the form of a toast at his wedding to Jessie. The tables turned, and suddenly it was Michonne who'd endured silent torture all this time.

But why now? Why hadn't she called? All those months, years even –

And she didn't know. She'd stood up there and mentioned the event that bought about their first kiss without any flicker of significance, and it hit him then _that she didn't remember_.

Rick chuckled. And then he laughed. He laughed because he truly couldn't believe the cards had folded this way, and this was his life.

The ceremony continued with revelry, but Michonne quietly excused herself, positing outside the room. She took deep breaths, trying to leash her nerves. She had half the mind to take Dale's keys (he probably wouldn't notice with how occupied he and Andrea were) drive off to a secluded area, and take sort herself out until this was all over.

She was struck out of her silent anguish by Andre shooting past her, headed for the gilded double doors of the church. She called his name but he didn't answer, breezing out in a cloud of frustration.

She started, but Rick was suddenly on her heel. "I saw him rush out."

"Me too. He didn't say anything," she said. "Ran right past me."

Andre's sudden departure a momentary distraction, they rushed into the balmy night air, where they found him slumped on a bench. Rick and Michonne exchanged glances before sitting on either side of him.

"What's wrong?" She eased down beside him.

Andre sighed. "Kayla and I…while we were dancing. We kind of…almost…kissed."

That sent a jolt of surprise through Michonne; Rick only chuckled. "That a bad thing?"

Andre looked slightly off-put. "She's my best friend. Kissing her would be like…you and Mom kissing."

Rick smirked, but Michonne didn't know why. Their only kiss, great as it was, hadn't ended too hot.

"You like Kayla?" Rick prompted.

"Well, yeah," Andre began. "But – "

"But you like her?"

Andre fixed his mouth to say something else, but then settled for a nod instead.

"Then you should go for it," his eyes flickered to Michonne for a fleeting moment before settling on Andre again. "If you don't now, you'll probably end up spending your whole life missing out on this great thing because you were scared, and then you'll meet this other person, and maybe they're great, but they're not what you could've had with Kayla. Kayla herself."

Andre's mouth parted slightly. "Yeah…"

Rick perked his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

Andre nodded vigorously. "Yeah!"

He shot up, giving Rick an awkward one-armed hug and kissing Michonne's cheek. He skipped backward. "Gotta go find Kayla!"

And then Michonne and Rick, a short distance away from touching, were utterly, achingly alone. Heavy silence braided the space between them.

Both of them would've liked to use the moment to say everything, _everything,_ if not for the circumstance they'd trapped themselves in.

 _What stupid luck_ , Michonne thought.

Rick took a sudden interest in the cloudless, star-filled sky, squinting in that way of his. "I think we just saved him years of strife."

"Rick, I…" Michonne's mouth went dry, groping for words. Again, nothing from either of them in this moment that would fix or say everything.

And even if it did, his bride was inside. Probably waiting for him right that second.

But they both _knew_ , and that was important – maybe for now the most potent thing they could offer to one another.

When Rick spoke again, a slight tremor wavered on his voice. "I only realized it tonight, during your toast," he looked up at her, silver lining his eyes. A million things in his expression, all of them as unreachable as the stars that splayed beyond them. "You don't remember your eighteenth birthday."

It was such a strange detail to fixate on given the whole speech. She could only slightly narrow her eyes at him.

Rick leaned in closer to her, ears tipped pink. "Around your fifth or sixth shot," he said in a low, raspy whisper. "You pulled me in for a dance, and kissed me."

She froze, carding through her memory for it, but she believed that with everything in her. It was probably why their second kiss ended with a taste of familiarity.

"You hit your head," he continued. "And the next day you told me to forget the whole night ever happened. I thought…"

He didn't need to finish. They both knew.

"And then you went to Prom with Jessie." She said, in hoarse breath.

He drew away. A breeze picked up and ruffled them.

"And you went with Mike."

* * *

She kept their goodbyes short.

Carl and Jessie accompanied them back to the airport, along with Dale, who was so swept away by Andrea he would be going back to Atlanta with them, obligations be damned in the name of sudden infatuation.

Michonne bent down to squeeze Carl, as he roped his tiny arms around her neck, making him promise her he'd be good. She and Jessie hugged good-naturedly, thought it was stiff and over before either of them could derive any genuine warmth from it.

Michonne allowed herself to feel every bit of Rick's embrace, knowing she wouldn't be seeing or hearing from him for a very long time, also knowing it would take everything in her to untangle the love that had grown wildly unattended between them. It would be a study in how to get over someone you didn't think you loved that way, but actually do, but for reasons, it won't work out, so now you have to let go. There would be now Wiki How page _that_ specific.

Closure, is what she needed. From Rick, from Mike. And then maybe, _maybe_ they could discuss things in a rational way, without their feelings clouding everything.

But this wasn't the end of them, not really. Like she'd said, the love would always be there.

Just not the love either of them hoped to have.

Too soon, Rick thought, she peeled away. He tugged her hand, some sort of vague plea he didn't think twice about, and she squeezed his fingers before drawing away completely.

Unknown to them, Jessie watched behind a sheet of hair. Post-wedding bliss did little to distract her from the unnerve she'd felt ever since. Uneasy taking her wedding dress off. Uneasy speaking to Rick. Uneasy on the way to the airport. And watching her husband exchange goodbyes with his best friend was cementing an ugly feeling of resentment inside of her.

Michonne cut her eyes to the other woman; Jessie balked slightly under her look before clearing her throat. "Have a safe flight."

Everyone was ready, and all Rick could think was too soon, too soon.

Too late.

Michonne said nothing, nodding to them and turning on her heel, never looking back.


	20. After All

It was just a little after midnight when Rick and Jessie returned to his apartment. A car ride wrought with silence; neither of them wanting to vocalize what the other one already knew. He'd spent it wanting to turn around and go back to Michonne, but however implausible that was, it wasn't what truly held him back. It occurred to Rick then that Jessie had been inextricably caught in the mess, and it was all his fault. He'd been so preoccupied with his feelings, it hadn't dawned on him that he'd married someone who loved him, actually loved him, and had chosen to tie her life to his indefinitely.

As soon as they were inside Jessie breezed to the kitchen. "Are you hungry? I'm hungry. I mean I thought the food at the reception was advertised better on the website, but it actually wasn't even that good…"

Rick sat on the arm of the couch, eyes heavenward, cursing and steeling himself for what he was about to do.

Jessie, unimpressed with Rick's barren fridge, began to yank open the cabinets. "We're gonna have to do something about that fridge. Not now, of course, when we come back from the trip. Should I make us some tuna and crackers while we pack?"

He turned the ring up and down his finger, a simple gold band.

She turned to Rick, only then noticing his strange bout of silence. She'd wanted something different. Him, unable to keep his hands off of her even hours shy of their getaway, maybe throw in a few corny lines to keep the romance alive until then. Instead she got this peculiar silence.

He was always so weird after Michonne.

"Anyways," she ran her fingers through her hair, the curls hanging limp. "Do you want to order takeout?"

"No, Jessie. I'm not hungry. You probably aren't either."

Her face slid into puzzlement, but her voice edged around fear. "What are you…"

"Jess, I am so sorry," his voice caught in his throat. "I can't do this."

Jessie slumped, the pretense of normalcy faltering with her. "No."

"I-I shouldn't have let it go this far. I should've done a lot of things differently, but this is something – I couldn't live with myself if I did this to you."

"You mean Michonne," She scoffed, nodding her head. "This is about Michonne."

A moment of silence stretched between them, so that all the gaps were filled. The glances that were never innocent, and rarely not intimate. How fidgety he was during the reception. His despondency after her toast. This whole time, she'd thought they'd fucked and what she sensed between them was lingering weirdness, but he was honest to God in love with her.

Jessie covered her hand with her mouth, the ensuing sob muffled. "Oh, my God."

Rick winced at the broken sound. "I'm sorry," he was a litany of apologies now. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

She looked at him, eyes glistening with tears and disbelief. "You are," she paused to swallow. "You made me stand in front of _everyone_ I know and love. People that respect me. My fucking parents, Rick. You made me stand there in a wedding dress and promise things to you, only for you to stand here, day of our _wedding_ , to tell me you're in love with someone else. I –" Her chest began to heave in panicked snatches of breath. "I'm mortified. I'm humiliated!"

Rick shuttered his eyes, wincing at the venom in her voice, keeping in mind that he deserved every bit of it and more.

Jessie raked her fingers through her hair and yanked so hard her scalp barked with pain. "You couldn't even give me two good months. Two months of ignorant bliss. You're leaving me on my _wedding day_?!"

"I couldn't lie any longer," he said firmly. "To you. To Michonne. To myself. Jessie," he tried to catch her eyes, to make her see the sincerity he felt. "I didn't plan it this way. I never wanted to hurt you. I did _plan_ on spending the rest of your life with you, until..."

"Till' today," she sniffed. "She change your mind so suddenly, Rick?"

"I care about you enough to draw the line here, Jessie."

She frowned at him. "Oh I get it. _You'll_ be fine. Michonne will forgive you, and if you're lucky, you two will be together. But me?" She laughed humorlessly. "I'll be the ditz who married a guy she only knew for a few months. The gossip blogs will eat that right up. And how am I supposed to tell them, Rick, that the man I loved didn't – couldn't – love me back? How do I come back from this? All that effort and money. Everyone's time, wasted. It's a fucking joke."

She fished around the pocket of her dress for something, and Rick was surprised to see a box of cigarettes emerge. He'd never known Jessie to be a smoker, but she lit it like a pro, drawing in a deep inhale. "I'm a smoker, by the way. Since we're doing a tell-all."

Silent tears cascaded down Jessie's face. "You're really leaving me. After everything."

"I am," his own eyes stung. "But you'll be ok."

Her hand trembled, the cigarette between her fingers almost slipping out of them. "This feels like the end, Rick. Of my whole life."

He thought for a second, feeling like an idiot for what he was about to say, but since he'd already butchered their hours old wedding, he figured he might as well. "You know those movie scripts you get, where the main character goes through the shittiest things the writers can think of, only to build them back up? That's you, and I'm the asshole who jilted you in the first act. Doesn't mean the stories over."

Despite herself, despite how much she absolutely _despised_ him in that moment, and likely would for the rest of her life, she found it in her to make sense of that way of thinking. He knew how much she lived and breathed scripts and projects – and damn near considered her own life a movie.

Rick notched his brows together at the way her face softened slightly. Who knew the dissolution of their relationship could be explained away like that?

He twisted his ring off and placed it on the counter. "I'll pay you back everything. You can stay here as long as you need. Call your friends, invite them to go with you to Bora Bora." He didn't speak the other words – that none of this would ever be enough, no matter how sorry he was, or his intentions. Jessie hadn't even fully processed this and he was already leaving. He would call someone for her, maybe her mother.

"But I can't," Rick paused at the doorknob. "I can't stay here." With you. I can't stay here with you.

Jessie nodded solemnly. She already knew – he was going to Atlanta.

* * *

When at last the plane took off, and Michonne didn't need to dig her nails into her thighs as she anticipated the liftoff, she relaxed into her seat. The worst was over. She could breathe normally again.

Beside her, Andre sat with his head bent with Kayla's, sharing earbuds, smiling sheepishly as they listened.

Behind her, Dale and Andrea were the opposite, laughing so loudly it bordered on inappropriate. Rick's wedding, it seemed, had paired everyone up.

Michonne let herself just be. She allowed herself to be awash in every bit of hurt, every bit of exhaustion, of unfairness. She let it be because that was all she could do suspended thousands of feet in the air, with nothing but her own heartbreak as a distraction.

She was long past the point of tears. And anyways, whatever she had left in her would be saved for her pillow. She was done running from things, feelings included.

They arrived in Atlanta at around 1A.M, dropped off Kayla (who Andre insisted on walking to the door) and then Andrea and Dale, who were, in all honesty, behaving like horny teenagers. Still, Andrea encircled Michonne in a hug that was more of a lengthy reassurance than a goodbye.

"You'll be ok?"

Behind her, Dale lingered awkwardly, hands shoved in his pocket. Michonne wasn't sure how much he knew, but it was enough that he looked a bit apologetic himself.

"I'll be ok."

Andrea moved to hug Andre. "I'll call you in the morning. Be good. Both of you."

Once they were home, Andre trudged up the stairs, throwing his duffel bag over his shoulder and bidding Michonne goodnight around a yawn. Michonne, who naturally couldn't sleep now that the opportunity was readily available, flitted around the house tidying things and sipping the last of the wine.

She hadn't realized she'd fallen asleep on the couch until Andre shook her awake the next morning.

"Mom," he removed one of his earbuds. "I'm going out. You need anything?"

She rubbed her eyes, squinting at the lights filtering from the parted curtain. "This early?"

"Well Kayla and I – "

She placated her hands. "Alright, go. Be good."

"Always am."

She let her head fall back on the couch. Heard the front door swing open, and shut. The events from yesterday still swirled around her mind like freshly sharpened knives, beckoning her perusal. But no. She was determined to get some type of work done today.

Up the stairs she went, into the shower, over the sink, into her closet, and then back downstairs to get the coffee started. The front door opened – Andre, always forgetting something. She poised to hear his panting and the grate of his sneakers against the floor.

"You should probably keep this thing locked," Rick said. "You don't want just anybody wanderin' in."

Michonne blinked fast, swiveling around.

But it was him. Him standing at the foot of her door as if he'd been there the whole time. Shafts of sunlight washed his hair a molten color. Bags hung under his eyes, ringed with exhaustion, but they were more alight than she'd ever seen them.

"Otherwise you get people like me waltzing in unannounced because," he let his hand slacken, all the while never taking his eyes off of her. "Because they're so in love with you, and waiting one more moment, even to just ring a doorbell, is a little torturous."

Michonne opened her mouth to say something, the only thing achieved being a sharp intake of breath. There were so many things. How the hell had he gotten here? Was he still married? Had he just up and left her? The letter, she'd gotten the letter. It was Mike, and if she'd known sooner she would have – what were they going to do? What the hell had they been doing?

But first.

They didn't know who reached who first, only that when they finally kissed, when he pulled her flush against him and she tilted her face just so, that it was nothing short of perfect.

Not for any lack of alcohol or blind lust, though that certainly helped, but because they were sure. Even in the flurry of feelings that ensued the kiss, they were steady. This was what they'd held their breaths for, what they'd been afraid of, total awareness of each other and all the things that entailed it, and now that they'd stepped over that ledged –

Rick's laugh was a low rumble, relief in every line. "Took us long enough."

She laughed, too, though it was choked with tears. Happy ones. "Why didn't we do this sooner?"

Rick's hand slipped down to her waist, the other caressing the juncture between her cheek and neck. "You want this?"

He asked it in earnest. And though it was such an unnecessary question, she loved him all the more for asking it.

"Yes," she said, with absolute clarity. "All of it."

A broad grin overtook his face. With a yelp of surprise, Michonne was being carried bridal style, the sun behind them ascending, their piece of forever rising with it.

* * *

ONE YER AND A FEW MONTHS LATER

(MOST OF WHICH WAS BLISSFUL)

Andrea uncorked a bottle of wine. "Well guys, she did it!"

Cheers petered out from the small group left, everyone else having left. And no matter how many congratulations she received, Michonne still found it in herself to blush with gratitude.

"Nonsense, this place wouldn't be here if it weren't for you guys," she insisted. "So, actually, _we_ did it."

Andrea waved a hand. "Blah blah, modesty, blah. Honestly Michonne, you have permission to talk shit. You have your own _firm_ now."

"Ok, well, in that case I'm gonna be insufferable for the next few weeks, thank you very much."

"You did it, Ms. Grey." Kayla smiled, exposing two dimples in her warm brown skin.

Andre's eyes shone with reverence at the woman he called Mom, and that was really all the validation she needed. And next to him, Carl flashed her a thumbs up from around a mouthful of cake.

They were in one of the offices of the floor of her firm, in the building her father used to work in. Funnily enough, she thought she could feel him with her. Not just in this building, but in her, and in everything she did.

Familiar hands snaked around her waist, and then Rick's warm breath was bathing her face. "Let's take a walk."

She looked around. Dale and Andrea were swaying, uncoordinated, to the music. Kayla and Andre were on either side of Carl, giving him pointers as they observed his PlayStation game. They could slip away for a bit, sure. She'd have to return to lock up anyways.

"I missed you tonight," she said once they were in the elevator, interlacing their fingers.

Rick smiled sheepishly. "You looked pretty good in there, handlin' all those people by yourself. Very professional."

"Right," she let her head fall back. "Well, my stomach is in knots. Opening it is the easy part. But actually managing it," she worried her lower lip. "That's the hard part."

He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "You have your team. And you have us, every step of the way, whatever you need."

Michonne let her eyes wander to the side of his face. How was it that no matter how many times she'd voiced her fears, he was unfailingly patient with her? It was one of those moments she couldn't believe he was hers, and sometimes, that they'd gotten to this point.

He winked at her, strolling ahead of her as the elevator doors slid open again. Michonne quickened her pace, giggling. "Where are we going?"

Rick lobbed her such an innocent look, she almost believed it was devoid of mischief. "To go have ice-cream."

"And ice-cream isn't some euphemism for sex?"

"Depends. You want it to be?"

Turns out, he really did just want to steal a few quiet moments away with her at the local Dairy Queen, over their bright light and one lonesome table. Rick ordered strawberry, Michonne buttered pecan. They talked about the night, stopping to kiss between bites and bits of conversation.

"I actually pictured my life way different at this point," she told him. "Both of our lives."

He quirked a brow, and having finished his ice-cream, pushed the carton away. "How?"

She mused. "Well for one, I'd still be married to Mike. Probably pregnant with the second kid. You'd be with Jessie, and maybe she'd be pregnant, maybe not," she looked thoughtfully into the rest of her ice-cream, then added curtly. "The firm is there in every timeline So's Andre, and Carl for that matter."

They didn't mind discussing the past, even the painful parts. It was necessary, and mostly meditative. And in retrospect, she was grateful for it. In that moment, she told Rick as much.

"I don't think about that," he drew her closer, so that she was practically on his lap, their legs intertwining. "If all that stuff hadn't happened, we wouldn't be in this moment, right here. With my best friend," he brushed his thumb over her chin. "Who I love."

"I don't know," she nestled further into his warmth. "It kinda felt like the universe was playing some elaborate joke on us sometimes. With a very good punchline."

He snorted. "Oh, the best."

Michonne closed her eyes. After the day she'd had, she was prepared to fall asleep right there in his lap. She would have, if not for Rick's fumbling.

By the time her eyes fluttered back open the small box was perched on her thigh.

Now she was wide awake.

"See, I would get on my knee," Rick said, voice husky. "But I'm wonderfully compromised."

"Yes," she said within the next breath. "Yes, I'll marry you."

The two lonesome Dairy Queen workers cheered and hollered.

Rick and Michonne kissed, deeply and indulgently, giggling slightly at how dramatic they were, basking in the moment. Years of this and every kiss still sent shivers down their spines, every day like an answered wish. When they had what they did, it was difficult to lament on years prior, because the years they did have made up for all of it –

And all of it was a gift.

* * *

Aaaaaand, it's done.

A few months down the line I will re-read this story and cringe, and try to sneak-edit it, because in retrospect this reads a lot like an outline. Looking back, there are a lot of things I'd change about this (seriously, past me is recoiling). I've never written a full-length story before, and so to have this be my first foray into fan fiction was definitely a wild ride.

Anyways, crippling inadequacy aside, I'm super grateful some of you were into this! Thanks for being so supportive!

The thing I want you to take away from this is to love people now...before it's too late, and you wake up to discover you're in love with them but they're moving to Boston. If you live in Boston, imagine them moving to, I don't know, Canada.

Actually, the real take away is to watch Love, Rosie. It's such a cute, frustrating movie.


End file.
